Just drop it, John – sequel
by csfcsf
Summary: A continuation on the collection with several times John heard Sherlock telling him the same thing: 'Just drop it, John'. Different genres and varying lengths, one common line of dialogue. (Because I still get bored - go figure.)
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Well, I guess this is how a collection starts. Around Halloween I looked over my shoulder to a skeleton on display (with a curvy spine and a thug's hat; I think he's got the plastic version of scurvy, poor thing, and won't go far as a thug) and that was it. I'm sure this is how it starts for all the real writers out there..._

 _Still the same self-indulgent principle of the last collection: different genres in no particular order, varying lengths as suits my pen, unscheduled updates and the promise I'm giving it all my best (I always do)._

 _As always: I'm still not British (I've learnt English as a foreign language), a writer (no training, no beta proofing and no idea what I'm doing) or making any profit from these (although I do have fun, but unfortunately that doesn't pay the bills). -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

There's something incredibly homely about Baker Street. It could be the memory embedded in those mismatched wallpapers of the first feeling of safety a returned soldier has had in a long while. I'll always associate these walls with getting to know Sherlock, the genius detective with a grandiose personality and high speed mind, sometimes even high speed speech when he deduces at a crime scene. When I first arrived, having been used to a military strictness for so long, I was allured by the curious nature of all the cluttered knickknacks that lay about in the living room. How a man with a pride of his neat methodical reasoning could have set himself up the bachelor pad of an unruly artist. When the offer came to share the flat, I realised that I didn't really feel bothered about the messy decor. It felt right, suited for my friend's unconventional lifestyle. And as for my input into a shared flat, having been deployed for so long in war areas where what you have to your name is either practical in nature (ammunition, armour, med kit) or fits inside a pocket with all your souvenirs from home, I realised I had very little to contribute to the flat. So perhaps it was for the best that Sherlock had already had his way with making the space his home. Perhaps I could fit into what was already there; and I found that I fit so seamlessly that it was with almost painful relief.

It felt that as I rented the flat at 221B Baker Street I got myself a home as well. Sherlock's home, the one he opened up to me generously. A home I made my own as well with no hesitation.

We never had a discussion about using his stuff. Sherlock treated some of his possessions with more care – like his skull – than others – like the coffee table he often stepped on instead of going around – and others were sacred to him by principle and I knew it without a word – such as his violin. Sherlock certainly contributed to my ease as he never had any qualms about using my stuff, without permission. _Sometimes I wondered if I had to take his violin for ransom so he'd leave my laptop alone_.

But then again, it was just the principle of the thing. Sherlock can be so loud, so absorbing in his grandiose personality that I sometimes felt I needed to set limits to his invasion of my life.

 _I really wouldn't do that to Sherlock's violin._ The man simply adores the object, and fluently conveys depths of emotions as he plays it through the night. Sometimes it can be so healing as I wake up with a bad dream to be soothed by those warm string reverberations across the flat.

In truth, when I agreed to share a flat with the genius I never foresaw that I would feel so strongly about this place. _Call it a home._ The sort of home I had quite forgotten how it felt to have, having been an itinerant soldier with little family ties. Somehow, slowly, it seeped into me. This place where I came to sleep, often exhausted after a good criminals chasing alongside Sherlock. This place where I sensed the ingrained smell of tea, in an often repeated routine that grounded me as I adjusted to this new life in London. Sometimes also the smell of deflagrated gunpowder, if Sherlock got hold of my gun in a tantrum against the wall. The scent of old woods and dusty corners, the lingering ashy smell from the burnt logs in the fireplace, or Sherlock's many scientific experiment concoctions brewing in the kitchen.

The many stimulus of those foreign objects, collected by a well travelled man himself, sure to tell silent tales of the time before Sherlock and I met, before we crisscrossed London like silent avengers of crime (sometimes fighting the urge to giggle at the most inappropriate times).

The walls that separated and guarded me from the evils of the world outside, that in my post-war heightened paranoia I had let haunt me out of any peace of mind, became defence walls while I recovered from my trauma.

Sherlock was an integrant part of the Baker Street package, of _home_ , refuge and place of truth. He was both safety and excitement, danger and purpose, logic and chaos.

 _Often there was chaos in the logic._

I remember one day coming home with my hands full of grocery bags to find another of Sherlock's oddities. There was a skeleton propped in my armchair, as if lazily lounging about. And Sherlock was sat in his own chair, lazily fingering a loaded gun. He glanced at me as I came in, spasmodically smiled at me and proceeded to fire all the bullets in the gun's chamber towards the skeleton.

The noise was horrible at close range, and the reverberation of the gunpowder explosions shook me to the core. I covered my ears with my hands, belatedly. As the shots kept repeating in a rhythmic trance I found myself flinching over and over again, cowering lower and lower.

People know I'm a soldier. Perhaps they would expect me to face the gunshots with extra ease. What they don't understand is that an army doctor knows better than anyone what each one of those detonations can do to a human body.

 _Or a skeleton, as the case may be._

Sherlock kept his eyes stuck on me, throughout the exercise, with the studied air of idleness of a true artist. For a moment I wondered if he was studying me or the case that had led him to such creative extremes.

Knowing Sherlock there are high chances he was multitasking.

The confined space still echoed the last reverberations from the gunpowder and the acrid smell filled the room faster than my spinning mind, or my rushed heartbeats that urged me to take cover with the pressing wisdom of experience. But this was Sherlock, and Sherlock was safety and London and the end of the sandy landscapes of war, so I stoically pushed the last inputs of flashbacks that my memory supplied the panic rising inside me, in order to focus on my friend's odd behaviour.

'Did you just sit there, waiting for me to come back with the shopping to empty my gun?' I asked in a bout of anger. Only Sherlock gets me spinning out of control this fast.

He was already reloading the warm gun with fresh bullets when he lazily brought his grey-green eyes my way, with a mysterious catlike expression, and idly drawled out his complain of the world beyond our refuge: 'Boring.'

'What is?' I asked with a dumbstruck head shake, before I realised I took his bait. I was supposed to be angry at him.

'There's no trusting of the criminal classes these days. They are crude and reserve no mystery to the dedicated investigator.'

'Shame on them!' I muttered, sarcastically. Not sure Sherlock registers sarcasm, though, as he kept that reverie induced expression. With a scowl I was already leaning into the shooting range of the gun in his hands – of course it's my Browning – to check the damage to my armchair. Well, when I say "my" armchair...

Sherlock stopped fiddling with the loaded gun at last, putting it aside and then reseated himself in the edge of his chair in a fit of sudden hyperactivity.

'John, you're a doctor', he started, keen eyes studying me now.

'What gave me away?' I mocked gently.

'John, we received some post. A case came in by letter. An old-fashioned postal letter. Does anyone even write letters on paper anymore? Anyway it's barely a Two, maybe a Three. It's hardly worth my time, but the criminal classes seem to be on strike out there or enjoying an undeserved secret national holiday for criminals, so I'm forced to take what I can get. You seem to have taken a liking to being my blogger, why don't you blog about this one?'

I blinked, facing his nonchalance.

'It's a Two point Five case', I gave him the average score. 'I thought I wasn't to blog cases under Seven, in the least.'

'Perhaps the criminal classes need proper incentive. They need to be faced with what I have to deal with and take responsibility...' he answered, managing to keep a straight face. For a moment I was taken aback. But no, of course he wouldn't be wishing for a crime surge in London.

I rubbed my face and took a deeper, fortifying breath.

'Sherlock, there's a skeleton in my armchair', I started over.

'There's an empty chair by the desk', he volunteered with a head nudge.

'No, I mean: what's _he_ doing here?'

'John, there's been a skull in the mantle for months now and you haven't questioned that', he carelessly points out my double standards. I could tell it just wouldn't do for his organised, rational mind.

I sighed again. I seemed to be getting nowhere. So I took the said chair, by the table, facing Sherlock and the skeleton. _Again taking the bait._

 _Feeling oddly engaged by the detective's madness._

And I vaguely wondered about the strange twists and turns in my life.

I sighed in defeat, not audibly, I don't believe, but my microexpressions of defeat and exhaustion must have resonated in some level with the detective because he jumped of his chair with a resolute decision impressed in his every fibre.

'I need an assistant on a more permanent basis, John. You should expect to find yourself in duty at any given time or place. Even at home. You are a soldier. I'm sure there was no real downtime in battle, so it'll come as no surprise.'

I straightened myself somewhat, looking his way, intrigued.

'You need me? What for?' I further pointed to the skeleton. 'I'm sure you know I can't bring him back to life.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, short-tempered. 'I'll need you, not always as a doctor.'

'Unless you pretend to declare war on an alien skeletal race, you don't need a soldier either.'

He nods, appreciatively, as if he was saving that option for later.

'And', I add, 'you can blog yourself about your cases, Sherlock. You often use my laptop as it is, in case you've broken your own.'

'Nonsense', he denies my suggestion at once. With a hint of hurt annoyance he urges back: 'Just drop it, John. The public likes your unstructured narratives, your useless embellishments, they read those ailments to the modern language as genuineness.'

'You're jealous?' I ask with a frown, reminded of his own 243 types of ashes blog post. Sherlock ignored my question altogether. I took that as a Yes.

And bit down a proud smile that fought its way out from deep inside me.

'Sherlock, why do we have a skeleton in my armchair at Baker Street?' I asked once more, patiently. And just to humour my mad friend I reached out on the table to grab a notepad and a pencil.

He gave me a fleeting look of cautious exam, before pretending he wasn't paying attention.

'The skull was being unreasonably silent', he ended up muttering.

I smiled softly. 'The skeleton didn't get much more talkative either, did he?' I asked in mock understanding.

'John, I wish you'd be reasonable, we have a case to solve', he snapped at me.

I lowered my pencil somewhat, noticing his words. He meant the two of us. _He asked me to keep a record of his case, but now he acted like we're both solving it._

 _I like that._

I looked over to the skeleton, intact despite the bullets discharge his way, they all went through his ribcage without damage to the bone, burying themselves in the red tapestry fabric of the armchair.

Pericardial hemorrhage inevitable, internal bleeding would be the messy cause of death.

 _Me, helping Sherlock solve a case?_

Sheltered by those walls of 221B I could imagine myself solving crimes with Sherlock on a more regular basis. Being more than a doctor or a handy trigger happy backup. Perhaps we could teach each other our skills.

Sherlock offered me the chance to study and understand his methods by taking in this Two point Five case. _Baby steps, as he was prepared to guide me along the process that took him years to learn, self-taught, by trial and error. I felt privileged and relished this confidence so exquisitely volunteered._

I looked over at Sherlock, who was patiently waiting to read the decision imprinted in my features.

 _I could do this. Be as much of a part of Sherlock's life as 221B has become of my life._

Sherlock had volunteered his home to this lost soldier in need of grounding. Now he was giving me a reason to stay.

 _I'll name it "the case of the rattling skeleton". It's got an old-school flair to it._

Decision established, I got up from my chair, with a small grunt. 'Fine, that's fine, Sherlock. I think tea is in order', I volunteered, keeping myself controlled. Sherlock smirked, in face of his unflappable flatmate. Often he reads my thoughts and decisions, sparing me the awkward process of verbalizing them. _Of course I would stay. Of course I would be his assistant, and learn the trade. Of course I would be happy in this unpredictable corner of London._

Before anything else I add, cautiously: 'My armchair had more broken springs in it than whole ones, anyway. Just make sure to get the bullets out of the cushion padding, Sherlock, they're bound to be bloody uncomfortable.'

He nodded, not bothering to disguise the warm smile that spread in his features.

 _ **.**_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thanks for all the faith in this new collection._

 _This is my spring cleaning reward. Found it in a drawer. I really think this one never saw the light of day. (My apologies if I'm mistaken.) The reason being that it came out heavy. Feel free to bypass it at will. I'm indecisive as to a second part. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

The high pitch sizzling sound of air ammunition is getting closer and closer. These are the blessed last seconds before impact, before all hell breaks loose and life is forever altered. It should probably frighten me half as much as it mesmerises me, but war will do that to you. Desensitize you. Somehow and some day, the inextricable misery and hardship of a battlefield have become _ordinary_.

We all know the drill. We all go at it in these last seconds of suspended terror, before impact, before chaos and fear are tangible and widespread.

Choose who you are going to attempt to protect. Choose among those helpless ones, the ones who are too battered or unconscious to fend for themselves. Leave behind the ones who are too far-gone, contradict your instinct of healing and protecting all, go for the ones who stand a better chance first. Play god in this merciless land, hoping one day you are not too far-gone yourself.

The high pitch shriek gets higher and the scene lurches onto top speed. Protect the patient as best as you can, take cover in any way possible. Wait for the detonation, it's sure to come. The screeching keeps getting louder. I hold life in my arms as in an undignified manner I drag it to safety. I must risk another go. Surely there's enough time for another go?

Impact is imminent now. I drop my second patient as he bleeds peacefully onto the dirty ground. That I could save him in this hellish scenario was already a far stretch of the imagination.

 _'John!'_

I open my eyes wide, terrified. I try running, trashing, moving, anything; but my treacherous body is heavy and unresponsive. Can't tell where I am anymore. The familiar battlefield has dissolved into the unknown. I've lowered my guard, it only took a couple of seconds, now I can't tell where I've come to, in this insurgents stronghold.

Must have been captured. My best founded hopes lay on a ransom demand. But I know it will never come. I'm a doctor, just a doctor.

 _'John, can you hear me? John!'_

I muster my depleted strengths to raise tired arms against the dark vulture-like figure that materialized next to me. Face pale as death, dark wild hair, impossibly aqua-coloured eyes.

 _'John!'_

My violent struggle is no match to the death lock grip the figure places on my wrists, pinning them to the mattress.

 _'I need some help in here!'_

I'm mercilessly trapped as the high pitch sounds reach a new level of hysterics. Suddenly it comes to a sudden end, and is replaced by earthshattering trepidation as it crashes on solid ground, so near me that my whole body convulses high up off that flat surface in shock. Just before I'm curling up to duck from the showering debris. The fresh stench of hot blood spilling out nauseates me. I need to fight, we're losing, we're waiting to die like sitting ducks.

 _'Stop it, John! You've torn your stitches open already!'_

I freeze at the violence conveyed in those foreign, disconnected words. I've been a prisoner of war before. I know what they do to us. Some you can put back together again, other parts of who you were get lost forever.

I'm left cold, panting on a damp surface. It's so cold in here.

 _'John, look at me! John! Will-you-hurry-up? He's passing out from hyperventilation, you idiots!'_

Cold. Everything turns cold in the blink of an eye. I'm shivering all over. Must be night time at this insurgents' stronghold. The merciless sun has abandoned us a while ago, lowering the hellish temperatures of the suffocating stale air. It's ill relief, for there are no rescues at night, it's much too risky to proceed in unknown hostile ground in the dark. I'm given up as dead till the morning comes. Only the monsters will lurk around at this hour...

I redouble my efforts to free myself, but I'm held under steel claws. A sickening pop and a sharp pain in my shoulder tilts my world suddenly and I'm emptying my meagre stomach contents over the side. Someone curses, I don't think it was me. I'm rolling my eyes. I'm familiar with this nauseating pain. Dislocated left shoulder. Slid right out of its socket. Nerve damage. Can't move my arm.

The pressure over my left forearm is magically released, I'm contorting to retch to the side. A soft touch snakes around my head until I feel a warm hand supporting my strained neck. I try to look at the person, but I can't see through my migraine. All is blurred, all is pain.

 _'It's okay, John, it's okay'_ , the voice comes back, lost of all its sharp edges. It's comforting and grounding.

I squint through heavy laced eyes, but I still can't tell where I am. The faithful war noises gave receded somewhat, and with double the pain I had when I woke up, I want to take in the reassurance weaved through that beautiful deep voice. The British accent further allays my worries and I allow myself to nestle back. Immediately the pressure holding down my other arm – the one not feeling on fire – also gets released.

 _'Easy now, John.'_

I blink once, twice. On the third blink I push the monster away with all my might, and fling myself out of his reach. I stumble off a surprisingly high level, falling to a hard surface below. A bed? Can't be possible in this hellhole. Only dirty blankets on the floor. I try to run far away, but my right leg buckles under my weight like warm butter. I fall back on the floor in a heap of misery and defeat, heart pounding on my chest, panic clogging my throat, short on breath.

 _'No!'_ the voice shouts, authoritarian. _'No drugs!'_

I shiver when I hear what must be my torturers' plan.

 _'He's having a PTSD induced flashback, no drugs!'_ the voice insists. _'John doesn't know where he is or what he's doing, and he's in a lot of pain. He's just defending himself like any soldier would... Is that right, John? Have you... gone back?'_

There's a broken quality to that educated voice now. As if he's asking me to tell him what next he should do, asking for guidance. Like a lost child. I struggle to know if I should trust it. Something primal within me, something that not even the war can erase, tells me it's safe to trust.

Am I giving up already?

I'm a wounded soldier half raised from the floor. My left shoulder irradiates a pain and nausea that I know only too well, my right leg is wet with blood – I can tell I've been shot through the muscle, not for the first time –, my left hand twitches so violently beyond my control that all my proud stance is shaken painfully with its force.

I'm not shivering in fear, I swear I'm not.

 _'John, I need you to remember me. Focus on me. I'm your friend.'_

Stop it! Stop the lies, my unit has moved on, I've been left here to die. It was the only sensible thing to do. As a doctor I couldn't save them all. As a soldier they can't rescue all of us.

 _'John, focus on me. Who am I?'_

I don't know.

 _'Who am I?'_

You're scaring me!

 _'I need you to answer me, John. Who am I?'_

I shake my head and bite my lip to hold in a whimper. I don't know!

 _'Focus, John, I know you can do it! Your mind is all muddled right now and that's alright. You will know who I am deep inside.'_

I look up, straight into those catlike aqua-green eyes that are intensely boring into my soul. I realise I recognise them, they are safety and I can relax. They are home and welcome. I made it home. _Sherlock._

'Oh, god...' I whisper.

My friend smirks openly, looking grateful for my return, no hard feelings. 'Shh... Stop calling me that in public!' he jokes to break the ice. As if nothing much had just happened. 'Are you with me at last?' he still double checks, for what it's worth.

I'm taking in my surroundings, things are becoming clearer. The hospital's sterile post -op recovery room, the trashed bed I must have fallen off from, the unhooked machines as I lie ungracefully on the cold floor, the tiles smeared with my own blood and sweat. Tears of frustrated shame prickle at my eyes and I hastily look away. Sherlock's steadying hand on my good shoulder tightens its grip.

'Just drop it, John. Don't even try to say anything. There's absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.'

 _Yeah, tell that to the staff on duty, will you?_ That a war veteran has lost his marbles as he woke up from sedation.

'It was perfectly natural, maybe even bound to happen', Sherlock persists.

 _Sherlock, that's not helping._

'I should have predicted it, in fact', he selflessly accepts the blame, contradicting his detached attitude. 'Knowing you were shot where your psychosomatic pain manifested upon your return to London and it would naturally trigger strong memories. You fell unconscious due to the blood loss as soon as you instinctively (I must assume) shot the culprit so we could safely come in. You only woke up now, understandingly disoriented and mixing events from the past and present as your leg pain tied them together... John, how are you feeling now?'

I stray my heavy gaze back to my friend, knowing full well that he can see the fresh tear tracks on my cheeks. Not quite as heroic as I'd hope to be. There was no possible hiding it from the ever observant detective anyway. For a moment time freezes on my honesty, and there's only the two of us sharing a long prospective look into each other's innermost thoughts.

'I feel like I need to get out of here', I underplay that claustrophobic terror rising inside me like a tidal wave.

He knits his brows closer together as if he's just heard the cacophony of war noises that lingers on the back of my mind.

'We'll go home as soon as possible, John', he promises softly.

 _ **.**_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Okay, okay, just to soften that last one, then, and to explain what I envisioned could have been triggered by John's wounded dignity sometime later. So, sort of a continuation, but not in the same tone. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

I'm not allowed to put weight on my leg anytime soon. The debacle of when I gathered my senses, after the corrective surgery to reset the damaged bone, has further hindered the healing process. Most of all, I fear I gave Sherlock the shock of a lifetime. Let's face it; the man is not one for social niceties. If he persisted by my side, outside the operating theatre and later at the recovery room – I won't bother wondering how a non-medical intruder got into a restricted area, for he is Sherlock Holmes – it wasn't a product of friendship or even empathy.

 _He stayed because I asked him to._

Not this once. Honestly, I didn't exactly count on getting shot. No one ever does, but I guess these things can happen. And I pretty much lost consciousness at once, or I guess I must have had a couple of last seconds awake to fire back, more on instinct than reason. No, I requested Sherlock's presence before, much before, from what I can remember.

 _I also didn't ask him in quite so many words._ The proud soldier in me couldn't do it. Ask him to stand by my side, see me this vulnerable. I couldn't.

Sherlock worked out my silent words on his own. Even if he couldn't rationally understand my ways, and he might even berate them secretly (as he does publically), Sherlock could tell that his support and loyalty mattered to me. He made sure to be there in every scrape and bump along the way. Mostly, everytime a physical injury set me back, regressed me to the lost, lonely sent-home soldier I am inside. Sherlock always vowed to be alone – "alone is what I have, alone protects me" – and yet he could identify the danger of that train of thought in me. He could see the loneliness and how it was sure to drag me spiralling down inside myself. He fought my darkness as he fights every battle: tenaciously.

Sherlock stayed by my side after my surgery not out of worry, but out of a sense of duty. He's much too rational not to see my stats, hear my diagnosis, study the x-rays, and know my prognosis just like the medical team. He did not worry, therefore – not in the traditional sense. He occupied the visitor's chair so I'd know he was present, because it matters to me.

Regardless of how much he'd despise the soppiness of the whole waking up scene, he'd bear it for me, so I wouldn't be alone.

He'd then make himself scarce while I minimally recovered from my injuries, _because he's Sherlock_. Not a nurse, not a cook, a cleaner or a cheerleader. He doesn't see himself useful in my recovery so he'd make himself scarce. And I'd be thankful to some extent, because I'd heal in privacy.

And if I saw a curious police investigation in the papers, I'd text him, and he'd reply no matter how engaged in something else. Silently assuring me I'm not alone. I'd give him my good news about some horrendous murder and he'd not snap at me for my romanticised interpretation. Later, he might even pop in to use me as a sounding board for his theories and leave after some glorious moment of tail-spinning deductions, abruptly, forsaking me behind.

 _He wouldn't really need me for all that._ He could talk it over with Greg Lestrade, for instance. Reaching out to me would be giving me some inflated sense of importance at a time of vulnerability.

 _I'd be thankful._

Sherlock behaves differently than most, but he has a good heart, I know it.

Greg might think Sherlock stays because Sherlock wants to see me wake up and get better, _but I know that, as much as I'm Sherlock's friend, he doesn't actually need me half as much as I need him._

Not now that he can cook, sort the laundry and prepare his tea without me.

 _Ever since Reichenbach I've become... dispensable._

 _An oddity he likes to keep around like his skull or the chemistry set._

Sentimentality has seeped into the coldhearted genius after all.

Sherlock confuses me, half the time. His actions says one thing, his eyes (and soul) show another.

In the green hues of his eyes I read that he cares. Fondness, friendship, affection. All along his attitude is detached, cold, contemptuous. Sherlock is a man in permanent self-denial. The sort of man who can stay at my hospital bedside, waiting for me to wake up from surgery, ready to snap the first witty comment that comes to mind as he's faced with my grogginess, because between us conversation is ever so easy. He won't stay longer, maybe because his brain gets in the way.

I'm the crack in the lenses, the grit in the turning wheels of rationality. He's a self-imposed hermit by choice.

If he comes out of his shell is to meet me, and drag me out of mine.

 _Again, I'm thankful for that._

But this time I may just want to be a hermit as well. To be left alone, forsaken, useless. I'm not looking forward to Sherlock's strained visits, I actually would rather he didn't come.

So I got him a case already, a juicy one, for him to sink his teeth in – metaphorically speaking, of course, for it's far too gruesome. A fire burnt down a family home, no causes were found. Spontaneous combustion is an option on the table.

Sherlock Holmes, Baker Street's detective, is now ready and engaged, heading to another part of town, as I'm about to exit the hospital, taking a cab back to the flat where I can recover, away from his prying eyes and loud chemical explosions.

I hold on to my crutch, bracing myself for the incoming effort of crossing the room without putting too much weight on a mangled leg while still drowsy from the strong medication. These are the cards I was dealt, this is how it's going down. _It's John against the rest of the world. Well, I take full responsibility._

Greg recovered my old crutch from dusty storage and that's all the help I'm asking from any of my friends.

I'm disappearing into thin air – just until I'm back on my feet (literally). The world will keep on turning in my absence.

The _world_ will hardly notice I'm not even there and will continue to act like normal. Well, _normal for Sherlock_ , that is.

There's a hint of a smirk in my expression as I glance at my reflection, waiting on the discharged patient papers to sign. There are also dark bags under my eyes and my stance is not as straight as I'd like it to be, but overall I should be feeling elated. _Why wouldn't I? After all this is what I wanted, right?_

I straighten my shoulders after signing my name in the cold, black and white piece of paper, and get ready to be just one more stranger in London. My cab should be here by now. Mustn't take too long, the meter is probably already running.

As I limp out of the infirmary, I'm shell-shocked by who I find on the corridor. Sitting on one of those uncomfortable visitor chairs, looking for all the world to see deeply engaged on his phone where he traces ridiculously fast patterns with his finger, surrounded by gruesome crime scene photos on the floor (that really shouldn't be out in the open for passing children or impressionable adults to see).

 _Sherlock's here._ Clearly to meet me.

 _I think..._

'Hm... Hi', I start, unsure. Because in the least someone needs to point out the graphic nature of those pictures and how they shouldn't be out on display. Is he awkwardly tempting me along? Is he convinced I can just hop my way back into a crime scene with him?

Sherlock glances up to me and relaxes noticeably his posture. He drops his phone on his coat pocket and collects the pictures off the floor in haste. I hold a forbidding hand in the air – not the one holding me upright on the crutch – and demand:

'Sherlock, I can't follow you.'

He frowns, utterly confused. I feel my stomach doing a somersault and my throat constrict. It's a painful position of isolation I'm sticking to.

'Fine, John. You can take the lead, then. You are probably better suited to find the exit anyway', he finds an easy solution to my demand.

I sigh. 'I meant you've got a crime scene to solve and I can't come with you. I'm...' I look down on my leg explicitly.

'We're not going to the crime scene, John. I would have imagined that as a doctor you'd know it's ill advised to put your leg under such strain. We're going to Baker Street, I'll help you up those seventeen steps.'

 _Oh, I hadn't thought of the steps._

Does this mean he wants to help me?

I frown. The floor could have opened up under my feet and swallowed me that I wouldn't be more surprised than I am right now.

'And the crime scene?'

He shrugs. 'I'll have parts of it transferred in to Baker Street. I trust you are aware that I'm one of the world's leading experts on ashes.'

 _243 types of ash and counting, yeah._

I shake my head, baffled. _Counting my blessings too._ 'Really? You want–' _to help me, to stick around?_

He ponders my words for a couple of seconds. Both the spoken and the unspoken ones, I'd bet. Then his controlled gaze saddens microscopically.

'Of course I want to, John.'

'Why?' I ask, almost suspicious. Perhaps it's a blow under the belt, but Sherlock's expression doesn't betray any change in emotion.

'You feel uncomfortable, humiliated by your display of self-perceived weakness. Now you want to push me out.'

I gulp. _Maybe._

 _Doesn't make it necessarily wrong._

Sherlock comebacks without waiting for a reply:

'Because you saved my life', he says, simply.

I shake my head, bemused. 'No, I didn't. You weren't even there.'

'Should have been.'

'We would have been both shot.'

'It would have made recovery at Baker Street more awkward', he ponders with a smirk.

'No, seriously...' I eye him carefully. 'Why?'

He unites his hands in front of him like a schoolboy, in studied meekness.

'Because I could be of some use, John...' then he lets go of his tangled hands and explodes, in wide gestures. 'Seriously, John, I never made you have to beg to help me, it's really unfair!'

I blink, stunned. He adds:

'And Baker Street's pile of magazines by the living room door needs sorting. I need an assistant.'

I smirk, at last. 'Fine. I mean, if you're sure the magazines pile is that bad...' I play the game. _Feeling thankful._

'It's insufferable, John', he promises me with a strong gaze.

'I suppose that's something I can do.'

He smiles softly, at last. 'Good', he says merely, and meaning so much by it. I realise he feared this awkward conversation and not being able to change my mind. When Sherlock isolates himself I tend to berate him loudly, and nudge him with little peace offerings of tea, toast, cases. He instinctively knows he'll need different tactics on me. You see, Sherlock gets wrapped up in his big brain, and I just need to get through to him. As for me, I may let the soldier's pride take me too far sometimes.

Having come closer, Sherlock now holds out an empty hand in the air between us. Open, welcoming, waiting.

I nod sharply, set jaw and stiff back, and hand him the wretched crutch. He takes my healthy arm behind his neck instead, supporting my weight carefully and stabilising me with a hand on my waist. _He's come to help and wants to prove it to me._

Thinking back on the standstill that got me shot, I realise I regret nothing. With a best friend like this, recovery will be a piece of cake.

 _ **.**_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Two parts, I think. And please take this as silliness and not life advice! -csf_

* * *

 _From the original Sherlock Holmes stories: 'It's not easy to explain the inexpressible', [Stamford] answered with a laugh. 'Holmes is a bit too scientific for my tastes – he approaches it to cold-bloodedness. I could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you understand, but simply out of a spirit of enquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects. To do him justice, I think he would take it himself with the same readiness. He appears to have a passion for definite and exact knowledge.'_

* * *

 _ **.**_ _ **1st**_

Not all of Sherlock's conscious and deliberate attempts at poisoning me were as bad as that time at Baskerville's top secret facilities.

Most times it wasn't quite at the same caliber of a mind-altering, terror inducing, chemical fog that made hounds look bestial. Sherlock may have learnt something or another about caution from that Baserville time, but he never quite abandoned his faith in me as a test subject.

Frankly, he probably means it as a compliment and with affection. I'm the one person he knows so perfectly well that he can detect and catalogue the minutia of small changes occurring, along the self-evident alterations.

On my most honest days, I can admit to myself that I think I have been given exotic strains of the flu, numbed down to last only a couple of miserable days. If I'm to believe an eminent virologist's published paper, that the week before my illness came to visit Sherlock, it may have helped save a small town in rural America (where the majority of the population was of Scottish descent).

There was also that paralysing serum that Sherlock used with a higher concentration on the Moorland serial killer. On that occasion Sherlock had to call me in sick to work, because I couldn't hold the phone.

And the euphoria inducing coffee – best coffee I've ever had on a morning – woke me right up. Sherlock had a hard time keeping me inside the flat; I wanted to go to the zoo and pet an elephant. In the end he brought over the elephant to 221B and– _Oh, sorry, I forgot we've signed a secrecy agreement on that one._

Most times I could fold Sherlock's plans; "I think I'll skip the tea, thanks" and cleverly avoided any other concoction the stubborn genius prepared for me the next couple of days. Every once in a while a very angry captain Watson made a brief appearance and demanded the end of the plot; that once I actually handcuffed Sherlock to the living room chair was just the icing on the cake (he didn't resent me; like a kid, he just sulked).

He guilt induced me to wonder what case he didn't quite solve, or not so swiftly, because of my refusals.

Deep inside I'm an enabler, I know. Because I trust Sherlock to have a deep meaningful plan to his overwhelming madness. I trust his rationality; _and, good heavens, I actually trust him with my life, to keep me safe._

Of course, unbeknown to the genius, sometimes I actually saw the plot materialising in the fog of Sherlock's mysterious ways. I'm not as oblivious as he seems to believe. I get to my own deductions, in my own pace. And, of course, sometimes I can read Sherlock like a book; although he's not ready to admit that.

Today I'm foregoing any former strategy. I'm really curious as to Sherlock's motivations this time, seeing that he has no case at hand as far as I can tell.

His methods are fairly crude for a genius, especially this time. He's to plaster me with alcohol. Not really a poison, yeah, but he's doing it for Science and to observe my reactions all the same. Certainly wanting to lower my inhibitions (known side effect of moderate alcohol consumption). He's definitely not expecting the deed to go unnoticed. So, in that sense, it's better than the odd flavoured cups of tea. Same principle though, if he hasn't sought out prior acquiescence from me.

Sherlock seems to have forgotten the Watson's fame of holding their drink well. That gives me some modicum of control of the game, that I intend to use in my favour.

 _In fact, I intend to get Sherlock to join me. I'll get him plastered too._ It only seems fair that the genius gets a taste of his methods.

We'll be spending the night drinking and talking away at 221B with my best mate. What's the worst that can happen? I'll make sure to keep it within the limits of responsible behaviour. _Or just slightly over._

I'll figure out what sparked Sherlock's curiosity and maybe even allow myself to talk more freely. It won't be Mrs H's most wished for, epic romantic revelation, but that's fine because Sherlock and I need to clear the air about this mind-altering offers he claims are for Science.

 _So, in truth, I'm allowing it._

In fairness, I only know about it because Sherlock is the sort of non-mundane genius who can't balance his books and cash in the clients' cheques. As I've been doing it all for him – he never even notices, and just assumes "it happens" – I noticed the large bank card debit from a posh, high-end wine and liquor store.

Fair enough, he could be trying to plaster someone else. Or throw a party; but that's really not Sherlock's style. Instead Sherlock invited me over this evening; and no one else. So, proudly, I accepted my best friend's implicit request to get drunk together. _I mean, to come round to Baker Street this evening._

 _And I'm supposed to be the responsible one._

 _ **.**_

The cold iciness within 221B's walls is my first impact when I walk in. I look over at the open wide windows as I repress a cold shiver. Regretting having left my jacket and scarf in the coatrack downstairs as I came in, I hastily glance around in search of Sherlock's reason to turn 221B into the North Pole. Was there a dangerous nitrogen gas leak from one of Sherlock's science projects? Did Sherlock purloin a crime scene corpse, too big to fit inside the fridge? Is my mad friend ill and burning up in fever?

'Hi, John.'

Sherlock welcomes me from the kitchen with a suspicious beatitude in his smile. He's sat at the table with his wool coat on, scarf and leather gloves, as he handles the microscope.

 _How long as he been waiting there for my arrival?_

Given his irresponsible quietness I huff off to shut the windows. It's the middle of the winter and temperatures are reaching the negative range outside. The flat is cold, damp and uncomfortable, as a result.

Still way too quiet, as I glance over my shoulder, Sherlock hardly protests against my decision. I move on to the fireplace to start a fire but find no burning wood available.

'What the–'

The detective shrugs, distractedly. 'It's cold, yes. Ugh... dull!'

I frown on him. But I can't be angry at my mad friend. I check the pallor of his face and the steadiness of his hands, searching for signs of discomfort, however the rosy cheeks are as expected for someone healthy, enduring the cold well.

And with the windows now closed to the outside elements 221B should start getting warmer, even without the fire.

Which leaves the motive for all this theatricality. _Well, tea is in order._

Haven't gone two extra steps over the carpet when Sherlock drawls out: 'No tea left, John.' _Oh, I could kill Sherlock!_ 'Hope you don't mind I used it up.' I sigh. _Of course it's alright, Sherlock._ 'It was for science, John.' I smirk. _Yeah, science! I'm seeing right through you, my friend._

'How am I supposed to warm up?' I help him along.

He shrugs. 'There's a bottle of whiskey in the cupboard. Alcohol gives off the impression of raising core body temperature. It might help.'

 _I could giggle right now._

'Oh, no. I couldn't possibly drink alone.' I turn around in time to see Sherlock's crushed expression. He wasn't counting on my refusal. I soften it a bit to the awkward genius. 'You know, Harry always drinks alone and she–' I end up losing my train of thought. Explaining my sister's struggles is really unnecessary, or how much alcoholism affects one's close family and friends.

'I'll have a drink as well, then', he says, bravely. Apparently not afraid it might skew the results, when the impersonal scientist joins along the scientific experiment. More probably, assuming his superior rationally can be a sobriety shield that fickler minds can't attain.

 _Oh, Sherlock..._ In some ways my friend is immature and naïve.

I pull out two glasses and the full bottle from the cupboard he indicated. I put them down by his microscope, pouring us two generous portions each, then sealing the bottle and raising it from the table.

'No, leave it!' he advises, a bit too fast. I focus on not giving myself away. Surely I'd worry he wasn't feeling well due to a long exposure to the cold in the flat?

Well, then. I take up my glass, fleetingly gesture a salute in the air to draw Sherlock's undeniable attention and take the full glass as if I'm about to sip from it, only...

'Sherlock, are you sure you're not too cold? The flat–'

I'm already lowering my glass, untouched. I can see my impatient friend holding himself in as much as he can.

He won't let me finish: 'You can get the blanket over your armchair, I've got my coat on, John.'

Shaking my head to the offering, I take up my glass, letting it reach my lips, and hold it just there, on the brink of completion. Sherlock just about forgets his impartially and his gaze lingers avidly on my chapped lips.

 _I don't feel guilty. I can be as stubborn as he is._

I lower the glass suddenly, as if I have decided I want to have a seat before anything else. That's when I ponder to myself if I really want to do this. Is it worthwhile? Should I just let it go for the night, and tell Sherlock quite frankly that I'm on to him?

 _It's to teach Sherlock a lesson. Of course I'll go through with this._

I take the tinniest, shyest sip, just to exasperate my masochistic, scheming friend. Then the ball is on his side of the court.

Possibly recalling how social behavior is often copied unconsciously, or just because it's his turn and I won't let him off, he takes a generous sip from his drink.

 _The genius has taken the bait; now, to reel him in..._

'So, how was your case last night, Sherlock?'

He rolls his eyes at the memory. 'It was a murder-suicide pact. Lestrade is getting thicker as he ages.'

I frown, mutedly letting him know that was mean. He seems surprised. 'Well, the murderer did cover up his work by framing the next door's neighbour's son, but anyone who saw that the porch light was on should have figured it out!'

I blink. 'Having the porch light on means you're a murderer?'

'In this case, yes!' He resents having to explain the seemingly obvious. Distractedly, he empties his glass in one go. I take immediate chance to pour him another drink. _Too easy!_

Sherlock gestures at my drink, reminding me of it. Fine, I gulp down mine in one go as well. I can handle alcohol like a professional, anyway.

 _And I'm absolutely sure I'm doing this for a good cause._

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Apologies for the delay. A bit long and silly. -csf_

* * *

 _ **. 2nd**_

Sherlock's coffee was a rare offering, destined to be acknowledged with awe and suspicion; as well as a deep feeling of thankfulness – for the self-proclaimed egotistical genius will only break his social behaviour patterns explicitly for me, of all of his friends.

The coffee was always as likely to awake me by being too strong and sugary (I don't even take sugar) as it was to alter my perceptions like at Baskerville.

And when I say coffee, I could include a large variety of beverages, all slightly burnt and bitter. Not even a nice cup of tea has been exempt so far. As far as I can tell, the method and periodicity of his experiments has been independent of scientific reason or rhyme.

That is to say, I could never see it coming.

Although, of course, to poison me with an alkali-based compound Sherlock would choose coffee or tea due to their bitter taste, where a strong flavoured chemical could be sweetened in a sugary drink (hence the sugar I don't usually take in my coffee or tea). The man is, after all, proficient in chemistry and murder plots alike, and not too shy to plot chemical-based murders in his head to help pass the time.

I have it from a good source that I'm a particularly recurrent character in his pastime. I'm flattered that I matter so much to the genius in his times of loneliness. And, of course, I'm privileged to report there's usually a second part to the mind challenge: how to save me from the poison's lethal action. A variety of antidotes has been literally hidden from sight all over 221B, Sherlock has once mentioned. And that tiny confidence changed entirely the way I used to see Sherlock's rather morbid pastime. In my friend lives a duality of attraction towards death, the macabre, the unexplained, the criminal masterminds with the sinful horrors of life, and the pure, crystalline innocence of a life-saving hero who would generously risk his life for the lives of his friends. These two facets of Sherlock's character are not necessarily opposing, and they fluidly mingle and coexist in Sherlock's inner world.

My friend is a harrowing unsolved mystery himself, one that keeps me continuously perplexed and awed. He takes me out of my comfort zone with so much ease. That's why we're here tonight. Like two teenagers with the house for themselves and who have just smuggled in a few bottles of alcohol.

And because I want to see Sherlock getting really drunk. He thinks he'll get me drunk faster, but I'm a Watson. I got this. No problem. I'll keep an eye on Sherlock so he won't do too many stupid things tonight, but I won't stop him from embarrassing himself. I could video it and show him tomorrow, while rolling on the floor laughing at his shocked face. That would be priceless. Greg taught me that trick.

 _Or did I leave my phone in my jacket downstairs?_

I guess I've been frowning to the distance, as the small amount of whisky I've had has made me pensive. Sherlock seems to have noticed this and he's just got up from his seat at the kitchen table. He wobbles slightly on the spot – he got up too fast, he's really a newbie at this – before he collects himself, leaning on the kitchen counter. He blinks a few times and a less glazed look returns to his hauntingly green eyes. I'm left stunned by his sudden decision, waiting to know what he's up to.

'You look cold, John. I'll retrieve your jacket from downstairs.'

'I can do it!' I volunteer at once, getting up from the chair. The table actually gets dragged a few inches as I collapse against it, blinking in confusion. 'Or not.' How did this happen?

I sit back down on the chair, eyeing the alcohol bottle with suspicion. It doesn't help that it periodically grows a twin in an optical illusion. Sherlock pats me on my shoulder in a quiet promise not to be gone for too long.

Sherlock takes way too long.

All the while I've been staring at the skull on the fireplace. He's been giving me the evil eye when I'm not looking straight at him.

The detective returns at last, with less of a steady demeanour, but quite a decided stance. He pushes my jacket towards me and then tilts his head sideways before, quite adamantly, shoving his deerstalker on my head. _What the—?_

'A lot of body heat is lost through the head, John.'

I frown. That sounds familiar enough, so I let it be. Sherlock has his long coat on with the collar popped up, which partly hides the unsteady gestures and flushed cheeks from the drinking, as he takes a graceful seat back on the other side of the kitchen table.

Sherlock squints all of a sudden, straight at my glass.

'It's not poisoned, you know?' he tells me with too much familiarity as he pours some more.

Sitting back on my chair, death-staring him, he finally realises I'm trying to convey a message and looks back at me. He smiles. I burst into a fit of giggles. His smile expands naturally.

 _Oh, what's the point anyway?_ I can never stay angry at Sherlock for long...

'Look, I know your plan, you know?' I tell my mad friend. I find the slight drawl in my voice surprising. _It's getting to me already._

Sherlock stares vacantly around the flat, seemingly aloof. 'Doubtfully.'

'I'm serious, Sherlock.'

He focuses back on me, determinedly. 'Really? About what?'

 _He's drunk; he can't remember._ Well, about...

'Your plan!' I say triumphantly as it comes back to mind.

'What about it?'

'I'll be damned if I know.'

Both Sherlock and I stare thoughtfully into the distance, trying to remember.

On the back of my mind I notice Sherlock's usually good posture is starting to sway even while sitting down. Loss of equilibrium. Alright. It's enough. Time to take the bottle away.

I'm snapping into instinctive protective mode as I try to get up and remove the alcohol bottle from my friend's reach.

The world sways dangerously. I just stand there, immobile, blinking eyes wide. _Wow..._

'John, what is it?' Sherlock worries. Genuinely, I would say. 'Are you... having a catatonic fit?'

I think about it. 'No.'

'Oh... Then will you bring us another bottle from the cupboard before you sit down?'

I chuckle. 'Why not?' _I'm so smart; the plan is working, I'm not drunk at all!_

'Why are you called William?' I blurt out, with no filter left.

He looks up at me, innocently. Then he ponders, logically: 'You don't choose your given name, your parents do.'

'Fair enough... Just thinking, "Sherlock" suits you better. It's more...'

'Go on...' He opens his eyes wide, trustingly.

'Like you', I finish. 'Extraordinary.'

'Oh.' He takes another sip and it feels like his last barriers of self-control are abdicated at that moment. Full trust to allow himself to be vulnerable – drunk – at my side.

I go fetch the other bottle with the nagging feeling I should have been the responsible one. Whatever happens from now on will be a secret between the two of us.

'John?' he starts, shyly, as I have my back turned. I grunt questioningly and he proceeds:

'Why are you called "Hamish"?'

I frown, then shrug. 'I don't know, but I don't like it.'

'I should call you "Hamish".'

'You wouldn't dare.'

'I should', he insists.

'Why?' I just about growl.

'Because it suits you. It's... unique, like you.'

My anger deflates at once.

'I like being "John"', I state confidently.

He nods.

'I like you being John too', he adds, in all seriousness.

 _ **.**_

Another while into our little, ill-advised, drinking game and we're like two teenagers experimenting with the limits of our bodies' tolerance to alcohol. My voice has become rougher, full of a cockney accent I don't know where I got it from, and I've been cursing freely like a soldier – pardon me, like a sailor – and I could hug Sherlock right now, if I just had a reason, but he's a git, so I guess I'll hug myself a git if I have to.

He'll probably punch me back.

I snigger in bubbly fits for the thought of Sherlock's outrage at being grabbed and pulled into close proximity in a useless display of affection.

Yes, I have affection for the skinny genius. And I'm proud to own that affection, yes I am.

 _Sherlock would go mad!_ I'm giggling beyond my control as I try to pour myself another drink. The cascading liquid is agitated by my giggles and spills all around the glass on the table.

Sherlock smirks and pulls out a notebook from my jacket's pocket – hey, that's stealing! – and determinedly opens it on a blank page, checks his wristwatch and jolts down some scientific notes. Surely on my motor skills impairment. The bloody genius never quits being bloody observant.

I scold my notebook and pen for performing services for the enemy. Active treason, right there.

My friend seems to think I've grown grumpy all of a sudden. He squints on me like I've just grown a second head, then blinks in some sort of understanding, and hands me back my purloined notebook, with a puppy-face of studied repent.

 _It's fine, Sherlock, it's fine! You're my best friend!_ I get up from my chair in unsteady balance and lean over the kitchen table, bottles, glasses and all, to hug my mad genius. _I don't want him to be sad, ever!_

Maybe I could have thought Sherlock was manipulating me, but the way he melts into my embrace over a bottle of booze is wholly genuine. Barriers down, figures the genius has drunk too much himself, and has little desire of self-control and pushing me away. Eventually I have to let go of him, we're both tilting to the side. My drunken friend is much more accessible and I grab the bottle to pour him another one because he looks relaxed and happy, and I want to keep Sherlock happy. _He carries around too much sadness._

I miss his glass by some inches. I glance over the wet table and the empty bottle in my hand. Sherlock can still have the spilled liquid with a straw, right?

'John', the genius calls me, and startles me.

'I don't have a strawberry', I confess at once. He looks confused. I blink; what was that for again?

Shaking his head like a wet dog shakes his shaggy fur, my friend refocuses on the notebook and slides it over the wet surface of the table, towards me. It's a peace offering.

I turn round the notebook. It's all scribbled, _in French_.

Who could figure Sherlock's alcoholised mind would still be genial and turn French-spoken?

I sigh. 'Merci', I say, handing him back the notebook. He can have it. I can't think of a single word in French when I'm this plastered. I'm not a genius like him.

 _ **.**_

We've sat down on the living room's carpet. It was Sherlock's idea. He was quite adamant. I didn't complain, I had grown a headache and his arguments made sense. I mean, he's worried, of course, that we have been drinking too much and that now my balance is compromised. I got up from the floor holding onto the kitchen table and most vehemently told him it's not. It was most certainly the chair's fault. It had collapsed under me all of its own accord. Active treason, right there.

So we abandoned the kitchen chairs about to be court-martialled and Sherlock dragged me over to the carpet. He's sat down on it, cross-legged in a picture of elegance. _He's always a bloody elegant git._ As for me I'm sat with my legs outstretched and open, facing Sherlock so that he's very much sat between my legs; and if decide to cross my legs he's in my way, he's always in my way.

On the back of my mind there's this nagging sobriety and demure reserve telling me I wouldn't approve of this if I was sober. _But – oh, well – you only live once._

 _Except for Sherlock, that is._ He's got more lives, as per Reichenbach. That either makes him a cat or a super-hero.

With the way he keeps a sphinx-like enigmatic look and elegant demeanour, I'm more inclined for the feline explanation.

And something tells me he'd make a very cute cat. Elegant and sinuous. As for me, I'd most assuredly be a blond, round fur ball.

Sherlock's looking at me with an unfiltered attention and care that I rarely witness. He looks smug, and naturally happy, and whole and at home, and if he'd started purring for real he couldn't look any more like a content cat than he already does.

I shake my head to the thought.

Cats don't drink alcohol. _Where's the bottle?_

I try to get up in one swift movement and the whole room responds by swaying to the side violently. I try to compensate the jolts of the world and end up falling flat over my friend.

'Gerroff me!' I growl.

'Anger', he pronounces with a bit of surprise.

'What?' I protest, as I untangle myself from the genius' long limbs.

'You've been happy, sleepy', he's counting from his fingers, 'and now you're angry. You really are textbook drunk, John.'

I blink, going really quiet.

A drunk Watson; is that really what I've become? Never have I wanted that for myself, having seen it in my family. But it's not like I'm better than them.

Hastily, I brush away a tear about to roll over my cheek. Sherlock mustn't see me like this.

'I'm sorry, John', he tells me really fast, I'm still crouching on the floor and haven't turned back to him. 'I didn't mean it.'

I turn to him at last, holding in a sniffle.

'That's okay, Sherlock', I tell him, willingly.

Sherlock looks all around us. 'You can shoot the walls if it makes you happier. Always works for me.'

I smile. Only my friend could be this generous. I pat my jacket pockets but I find no gun. What I find is my phone. I wanted it earlier, for _something_. Can't remember the mischief. But, what if—

I press the call dials firmly with a childish grin. Sherlock is mesmerised by my doings, being no help as usual.

'Hello?'

I've just drunk-dialled Greg Lestrade and I hold in a stiff laugh. Sherlock smirks at me and takes over, his hand sneaking over mine and the phone I'm holding between us.

'Scotland Yard?'

"Sherlock? John?" he sounds really doubtful. "Who's this?" Our friend seems to have forgotten us already.

Sherlock sniggers.

Greg's voice turns frantic all of a sudden. "Who is this? Where's John Watson?"

Sherlock splays a timely open hand over my mouth before I can say "here!"

"I'm tracing this call. John, if you're there and you can hear me, we're coming to get you, hang in there!"

Greg seems sure something has happened to me. And he's the police, after all. _Has something happened to me, Sherlock?_

My friend disconnects the call, losing all interest. He then presses another number from the list for another prank call. Funny enough a phone starts ringing at the same time in 221B. Then it all fits together.

It doesn't help that Sherlock's number is discretely listed in my phone as "Silly git". I still scroll down towards the Ss to get it. This way if some criminal gets hold of my phone he either doesn't find Sherlock's number, or he's forewarned.

'Sherlock, you're drunk calling yourself!' I start laughing like mad and I really can't stop myself. Sherlock is about to protest when he stops, looking at me, his features softening, and he just allows it, studying me with a proud expression.

I let the laugh die off and lay back on the carpet catching my breath and closing my eyes. I'm sleepy now. I can sense my cat super-hero friend shuffling along to join me by my side. I pull him closer in a hug and he actually doesn't pull away. I sigh, feeling tranquil.

We both flash our eyes wide open at the first sound of the helicopter paddles above Baker Street. But it's only as the living room's door bursts open and a small swat team storms in the flat that Sherlock and I untangle from our comfortable warm spot on the carpet, feeling really, _really_ confused.

Greg Lestrade enters last, gun in hand and bullet-proof vest, looking equally confused as he stares blankly at us. He curses loudly as he calls off the swat team without facing us again.

I feel a bit exposed, and hurry to readjust the deerstalker that keeps going crooked and making me look silly, I bet.

When finally the armed team is leaving the premises and the helicopter glides away, Greg stays behind, fuming silently.

'I'm sorry, Greg', I fold first.

'Just drop it, John!' he scolds me, angrily. 'Have you any idea? Of course not, why do I even ask?'

'It was for Science', Sherlock mutters, in his turn.

'Just drop it, Sherlock!' Greg snaps at my friend as well. That gets me all bothered, but Sherlock just lays a pacifying hand on my arm, as if he's more used to this father figure telling him off, as if we were teenagers wrecking the family home in dad's absence.

And I didn't even get to shoot the walls, like Sherlock said.

'Have you any idea—' he starts again. I nod at once. Greg looks taken aback by that. 'Go on...' he says, not very invitingly.

'In the kitchen cupboards', I answer proudly.

He sighs, covering his face with a tired hand.

'What is in the kitchen cupboards, John?'

'More drink. You can have some too, Greg. We should have invited you, after all.'

He sighs louder. 'Ta', he says, anyway. 'You really are wasted too, aren't you, John?'

He should know, he's been by my side for pints at the pub way more often than Sherlock. _Then again, I'm a Watson._

'Not at all' I drawl. 'I'm a Watson, I can drink without getting—'

'Just drop it, John', Sherlock cuts me off, from my side. I face him in outrage. 'You're as drunk as I am', he admits, full of brimming pride. As if he's happy to be _co-drunk_. Well, I suppose he may not have had those many drunken experiences in his solitary genius upbringing and young adulthood.

'Fine, I'm drunk', I give in, admitting it to both my friends.

Greg Lestrade chuckles and lowers his phone in hand. _Oops, we've been videoed for evidence, haven't we?_

This is going to haunt us for a very long time to come.

 _ **.**_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: I was asked to make a Christmas one. I would have by now, you know, except for me Christmas got cancelled, and in these terms I don't think I have it in me._

 _Here's something else entirely. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

We don't always win.

Well, not at the first try.

It's been one of those difficult cases. Brute criminals, lacking finesse or creativity. Too many, in a dark alley where Sherlock and I got lured into. We both fought. I took advantage of my military training to fight like a soldier. Sherlock was no more than a foot apart from me, fighting like a mad man; that is to say, determined to win. To protect me too, if we're to trust the sharp blow he got to the stomach because he was slowed down, sidetracked as he punched down a second assailant coming onto me from behind. I want to believe I repaid my good friend's generosity not even a minute later as I tackled his thug to disarm him of that knife he had just drawn out. We've won in the end. Sherlock is adamant to believe we also got his point across, and the message – don't mess with us – will be reported back to the source.

It's incredible how little Sherlock seemed to be bothered in telling apart which of his numerous enemies had set this trap. Some lowlife looking for the spotlight and a chance to climb up the gang's hierarchy, Sherlock assured me. All the while he was demurely keeping pressure on the largish gash on my forearm, indifferent to the tainting of his blue wool scarf with my blood loss.

'He was mine', Sherlock hisses, almost monosyllabic, as I stand, unsteady, against the dingy alley wall.

'He was about to get you. I had to do something, Sherlock.'

'You had your own to concentrate on.'

'Obviously I wanted another one.' I smirk.

'He was mine', he repeats angrily.

'Well, then. I stole him from you.' I shrug defiantly.

'That was rude', Sherlock hisses, and a small smile finally comes through. 'It was... helpful', he says, not wanting to verbally acknowledge my generosity, not out loud. I might get too used to being selfless, he says. _In his eyes, I already have._

'You're welcome', I return, wanting to provoke a reaction in my friend. He looks pale, scared, vulnerable. _Not because of the fight, but the aftermath._

 _ **.**_

It was the cab ride back to Baker Street that drained me. I insisted with Sherlock that I didn't want, or need, to go see a doctor or visit the hospital. Sherlock pressed his lips thin out of undisguised concern, but he didn't – he couldn't – contradict me. Because I'm a medical man myself and because he too doesn't wish to dwell in a hospital's waiting room. Too many deductions, too much desperate humanity, so raw and apparent to my all-observing friend. _I know this because he's told me before._

I assured Sherlock I was fine – better than fine: great! – as we crossed 221B's threshold. He didn't quite believe me, don't know why. Didn't get to look at him on account of a minor stumble on the way to my chair. Sherlock caught a solid hold of me as he directed me those last few steps until I could get some rest.

The contact with the old busted armchair that Sherlock claims bears my permanent indentation mark by now (but only to his keen eye, I think, for I see nothing special in the slumped seat's surface) was as grateful as a return home from a long, arduous journey. I blinked languidly, appreciatively, perhaps one time too many because that last time the lights almost went out.

I open my eyes wide, intense, keeping me focused.

Luckily Sherlock didn't notice, for he has walked off of his own accord, presumably to change his long coat for that silk dressing gown he likes to lounge about 221B with.

I find myself looking over to the fireplace, wishing the fire was lit, as the multiple drafts in the flat keep making it colder.

I shiver as a reaction to 221B's iciness.

Suddenly I'm startled by a mug with tea materialising by my side, thrust forward by long fingers and a strong grip. I look over to Sherlock, who's holding out the drink as if it's some tentative shy offering, generous and precious.

'You made tea?' It comes out suspicious and he flinches, barely visible but I can just about see it. I didn't mean it like that. I just didn't hear the kettle boil.

Sherlock explains: 'Hot tap water, tea bag, same principle.'

I face him, halfway to horrified.

'Not the same thing, though.' _Is this how he makes himself tea when I'm not here? Is he... British?_

Sherlock silently scolds me with a dynamic frown. 'I was in a hurry, after all.'

'Why?' I find it odd. Does he need to go somewhere? Has he got another case as we have just came back from solving one for Scotland Yard?

Sherlock awkwardly mumbles something, as he takes the tea mug away. I think I heard him say: "You said tea makes everything better, John."

 _I may have said that, yes._

A warm smile spreads on my face, but Sherlock misses it by mere instants. He isn't around to see it anymore as he has gone off to the kitchen, and this time I hear the kettle being turned on.

I let my head sag back against the armchair's fabric and watch the room through half-hooded eyes. The warm fuzzy glow of the street lights seeping through the two tall windows fights the darkening evening outside. It's been a rough last couple of hours, but in here, surrounded by 221B's walls, I feel protected and can finally relax.

It's been just a minor scuffle, after all, and behold how grateful I am to return to this place, that is essentially a home to me.

Sometimes I wonder how Sherlock pulled through those two years of absence from London, his life and his friends without having a place like Baker Street to fall on.

Maybe it was the hope of one day returning here that kept him going. He had the advantage over me in that regard. He knew he may still get to come back, to live this adored life once again, if he was successful. I thought it had all got lost forever, and mourned its loss as I mourned my friend's.

'John.'

Sherlock calls me softly as he returns, more composed, with a new cup of tea.

I could smile right now. Tea making should be as settling for my friend as it has always been for me.

I take the second cuppa out of his hands with gratitude, and tilt my head towards his armchair, in a quiet request for company.

He obliges, sitting at the very edge of the seat, his frazzled state returning in leaps and bounds. I wonder why, until I catch myself holding my mug with my right hand – the wrong hand, as far as he's concerned.

My observant detective friend couldn't miss the fact that I'm left-handed and extrapolate my reservations in using my left hand to the wound in my arm.

'Come, John', he invites, in a steady, assured low voice.

 _ **.**_

Behind the bathroom's door left ajar, I'm sat at the very edge of the enamelled bathtub that keeps to the corner of the bathroom in 221B. Under the bright white lights from the ceiling, my reflection catches partially on the medicine cabinet's mirror, from where I'm standing precariously. I look pale and drawn, the angry bruises forming from the earlier fight becoming more apparent. People have stopped making questions at work, because they have read my blog and know of Sherlock's work. It's at the supermarket and on the underground that I usually get the weird looks.

There'll be plenty of wrong assumptions in the following days.

'Ignore them', Sherlock asks me, as he collects some lukewarm water on the sink. I realise he's been spying on me from the corner of his vision through the mirror's reflection. 'People always talk. Rarely they're correct.'

I smirk – not without causing me some twinge of pain in my jaw, that I immediately disguise – and agree with Sherlock: 'People can't all be all-observant. It'd put you out of work, Sherlock!'

He nods playfully, as if amused and pondering a world where his incredible gift would be commonplace. _I can't imagine it myself._

'You, on the other hand, could have noticed the way the six foot five retired boxer was hiding a slight disequilibrium every time he turned his head sharply to the left.'

'Oh, he was the one that shoved me against the wall, was he?' I realise, as I think back. It all happened so fast.

'He was the one you kneed in the gut, yes, John. Crude, but undeniably effective.'

I grin like that was a compliment. Anyhow I showed him not to mess with us.

Sherlock sighs as he unmistakably reads my proud stance. Not bad, for a short guy with a black eye and a bleeding arm, huh?

'Perhaps we should be more careful next time, John.'

That takes me by surprise. Sherlock, being the cautious one out of the two of us? What fresh horror has brought this on?

I look all surprised to my mad friend and constant companion, the one man who will always have my back in a scuffle (even if it's a pub brawl because I'm drunk and wrong he'll fight by my side because he's my best mate, and so would I for him). His green-grey eyes remind me of murky waters revolving deep.

'I'm not _that_ hurt, Sherlock', I tell him.

'I'll be the judge of that, John, if you please. Take off that atrocious jumper for me.'

I clear my throat, waiting for an apology. My jumper is new, comfy and nice, thank you.

He picks on my mood and decides to humour me for some reason. 'Yes, John, your jumper is fully suited to you, on second analysis. Now if you would kindly part with it for a couple of minutes, we can see if it has any salvation after the damage that has been inflicted on you tonight.'

I look down, realising the said jumper is pretty much ruined.

I force my bruised arm slowly out of the sleeve, Sherlock has made sure to come and help me in the laborious process. We don't want to aggravate the wound beneath. As the coarse fabric is pulled over my head I feel momentarily like a kid being fussed over by his mum. I'm left with my blond hair in disarray, and blushing against the cold air of the flat.

Sherlock again senses something or outright reads my mind for he swiftly kicks the door, just a leg stretch away, that shuts closed with a loud bang.

He further acknowledges my discomfort:

'John, if I was to assault your modesty I'd have done it on multiple occasions presented to me by now', he tells me, to assure me of his good intentions, like in some Victorian era novel, that he's going to respect my "modesty".

'Oh, please!' I roll my eyes. There's little secrets left between us, no point left in battling for modesty or sensitivity. _That is not a problem._

Sherlock starts unravelling my stripy long-sleeved t-shirt and I almost regret my decision. _Exposing my bummed shoulder always makes me uncomfortable._

'It's my left forearm, Sherlock. You know this.'

He hums, distractedly. 'I want to rule out possible internal injuries, John.'

'I'm a doctor, I'm ruling them out!' I protest. As I expected, he won't pay the least attention to my professional judgment in this instance.

Soft brushing fingertips roam over my shoulders – the left one tense and tight, but that's to be expected – and down my abdominal muscles. It could feel odder than it does, if Sherlock's gaze wasn't so focused on every single detail or minute movement as I inhale and exhale. I'm starting to feel like I'm under some voodoo doctor's expertise.

'Really, I'm fine, I'm–'

He doesn't do a thing to stop my protest. Instead he zooms his attention on a redder patch of skin, over a kidney. He presses gently while watching my face for signs of discomfort. I press my lips thin but won't shy away. He gets that it's not serious. This too shall heal in time.

'Honestly, Sherlock, I–'

His long dextrous violinist fingers trace the invisible patterns of other blows on the latest fight and in some old forgotten ones. Soon I come to realise he's not paying the least attention to my shoulder starburst scar, that I would have taken for granted to be the centre of his morbid attention. All his focus is intent on thoughtful verifications of injuries I have sustained by my friend's side. Afghanistan was before Sherlock and I met. Düsseldorf's nicked kidney, a couple of consecutive broken ribs by the Lisbon twins, and those third degree burns from an roadside explosion on the outskirts of London all happened when I was already lucky to have Sherlock by my side.

Silently, I arrive at the obvious conclusion: _Sherlock's blaming himself for all the harm I've sustained by his side_. As obvious as the conclusion is to Sherlock that I've been injured for being at his side, it's also damaging to my friend, and, most of all, it's completely erroneous in my view.

'You wouldn't have been able to stop me from jumping in on the action, Sherlock. Not tonight, not ever. Do you hear me? I don't – _I couldn't_ – blame you for any of these.'

He lifts those deep green eyes towards my steady blue ones. I hope he can read that I'm telling nothing but the truth here. 'Furthermore, Sherlock, you wouldn't have been able to stop me from joining you.'

He keeps to himself. Sherlock's reverential fingertips slide gently to my injured arm. He seems to be silently calculating the damage of the epidermis, the depth towards the muscular layers, the time and energy required to regenerate the damage or even the faded scar that will remain in its place after all is said and done. The scar itself will only echo that metaphoric one that is being deeply imprinted in my friend's worry over me.

'I'm a soldier, Sherlock', I insist yet again. 'That means I sometimes get hurt in the line of duty.'

'Duty?' he murmurs, after me. Finally there has been something I said that resonated within him. Not sure what or how, but I know I must persist.

'This is the Work, that's what you call it, right?'

His fingertips abandon me at once, as if he's been scalded all of a sudden in his contact with my injury.

'You're fired, John', he says, as coldly as he can muster it. I'd take him seriously if in his green eyes his irises weren't trembling like a lost child's. Sherlock insists: 'Just drop it, John, your duty is done. I have no further need of your services, John.'

 _Right. Like I'd believe that, Sherlock._ My possessive friend would let go of me, sure, but only in a desperate attempt to keep me safe. In the end, he'd accept my parting, and the ruin of our work together, in order to keep me healthy and protected. That's noble, alright, _but dumb_. Sherlock seems to have forgotten who he's dealing with.

'Following you in the work we do has kept my psychosomatic leg pain at bay for years, Sherlock. What's a little bruise or cut here and there when compared to that?'

He shakes his head in earnest. 'That was before. Your psychosomatic pain wouldn't return now.'

'It might.'

'It really wouldn't.'

'Without you? I won't take the chance.'

He smiles shyly, understanding I'm being stubborn for a good purpose. That I'm not leaving, that I want to keep at his side in the Work, no matter the high risk of a dangerous job.

Finally Sherlock gets up, putting some distance between the two of us. Only at that moment when the detective turns his back on me to go to the bathroom's sink do I realise how close he has kept himself from me from the moment we fought brute criminals and I got injured. As if in his proximity he reaffirmed his silent protection and support.

Sherlock wets a small towel in the lukewarm water collected at the sink and returns with it in the same focused quietness. He sits again in front of me and gently starts cleaning the gash on my arm. Rubbing gently the dried blood, clearing the dirt, washing away the pain, the damage, the fright on us both.

I let him. More than having the genius playing a homely doctor for my benefit, I let Sherlock perform quietly this self-imposed duty because I know that it settles him, gives him back control, as he helps me heal after the fight that injured us both. I relent the task, knowing I'll insist on a mirrored action later, to check Sherlock's own possible wounds, disinfect and tend to any outstanding ones. My best friend is a certified genius, so I'm sure to get a medical patch-up perfectly done too.

We are a team, sometimes we can be too co-dependent, but this is how we've learned to find out fresh strengths for each new beginning; by carrying each other in our times of need.

In times like these, I don't regret my bad luck with those thugs for one second, and I'd proudly do it all again.

 _ **.**_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N:_ _Just in case anyone out there gets angry with me_ _;_ _this_ _piece in no way_ _reflects_ _the liability of the museums mentioned to get robbed. Let's face it_ _,_ _this is fiction, the_ _creative_ _realm where no museum_ _is_ _above being robbed and/or having bag guys chased down_ _its_ _hallways_ _._

 _First of more to come. Under construction._

 _Still not British, a writer or a detective. -csf_

* * *

 _ **1.**_

I guess I solved one of Sherlock's cases.

Quite by accident, I assure you. I mean it. There was no expertise involved, just pure dumb luck. _And I'm not even prone to_ _luck_ _..._

Sherlock was flabbergasted at first, then amused – deeply amused – as he chuckled at the undeniable result. He wasn't at all taken aback by his blogger pulling "a Holmes", just like him.

The real trouble was that the media got wind of it. And they think I did it all the right way. With reasoning, deductions and leads, the whole shebang. They say I must be like Sherlock. Whether they think I'm a shy version of Sherlock glad to be in the shadows, or a copycat elevated to equal status in our partnership, I can't tell. I know not what unworthy praises go through their minds. I'm none of that. _Mind you, I've got my qualities and they come in handy often in the Work, but being Sherlock Holmes is not one of them._ There have been times I wished so. Some other times I've come to understand it's a heavy burden that sets my friend apart in this world, that led to his isolation and misunderstanding.

Before Mycroft could put a lid on the media's misconception, the story blew out of proportion. _They think John Watson is as great as Sherlock Holmes._

 _I know firsthand_ _that_ _they are wrong._

It all started with Sherlock on hot pursuit of a daring art thief. Baker Street's detective deduced the thief was planning to finish his European circuit of high profile art thefts right here in London, at Whitechapel. Quite convenient – and overly tempting – for Sherlock not to keep his deductions secret from the Yard, and just take care of it alone. Well, not _all_ alone. His plan wasn't _that_ reckless. Like often, he trusted me to back him up. Asked me over to 221B and all. That is to say, he pretty much kidnapped me at my regular work's closing hours, and without so much of a chance for a meal, dragged me to Baker Street (where his fridge seems to be less sanitary than ever; not hungry anymore, thank you!), showed me an eye full of maps and post-it notes and red lines crisscrossing the wall from one side to the other, and assured me they all summed up at Whitechapel.

Fine. I always leave the deductions to Sherlock when I'm hungry, anyway.

The thief was, according to my whirlwinded friend, after the second of two copies a grand master of painting had done, unique in all the world. An oversized religious scene, he said. It took me a while to get convinced by Sherlock that the thief would go for the same image twice, having stolen the first copy at the Albertina in Vienna, but Sherlock was adamant that the value of a surviving piece would be higher than two separate pieces combined. Or they could always be sold to two different black-market buyers, unaware of the existence of the other one.

So, basically, Sherlock wanted to catch the thief red-handed. Which was fine by me, since it afforded me some action after two weeks of a homebound sulky detective calling me over at all hours for no good reasons and mulling over the quality of the case reaching his hands – " _There is no pattern to these thefts, John! They're random! Which self-respecting thief randomly steals for a living? There should be schools to educate criminals, this is too disorganised! Jim Moriarty is being missed dearly! How am I supposed to cope with these... short attention-span thefts?"_

According to the plan, I was to stand outside and guard the exhibition's room, while Sherlock hid inside and orchestrated the catch.

Needless to say, it didn't go well. The criminal evaded Sherlock, and me, by going after another piece altogether. Turns out Sherlock was too smart for him and the thief had never considered Sherlock's profitable scheme, aiming at pieces more randomly, according to his own eclectic personal taste.

Anyway, as I was standing guard, I heard a noise coming from the room opposite. I alerted Sherlock the best I could – _"Sherlock, he's in the other room!"_ – and ran after the thief. Sherlock stayed behind, believing wholeheartedly that I was safe, tricked by a false lead, designed to break us apart from each other and the target.

I ran into the opposite room believing Sherlock was just behind me. Caught the thief as he had just disabled the alarm and lifted a small statue, the correct target of the night. Off-guard, it was easy to neutralise the big statured thief and safeguard the artwork. Then I finally looked over my shoulder; Sherlock wasn't there. I pushed the struggling homemade version of a criminal along with me, more daring and lucky than deserving the title, to find out where Sherlock had got to. I was starting to feel some concern. Before I knew it, the police was arriving, alerted by the silent alarm Sherlock had triggered upon my alerting shout.

All in all, it was still a quiet teamwork Sherlock and I pulled off. He redeemed his previous mistake with a well-timed witty move that saved the day. I mean, he called on the Yard as the criminal in my arms kept struggling to get himself free. And, let's face it, the thief was double my size. There would only be so long I could keep him under control. Like I say, Sherlock saved the day.

The police apparatus called the natural curiosity of the passersby and before I even knew, there was a camera phone picture of me, holding the thief steady for the police, and Greg quietly taking notes. Sherlock looking uncommonly baffled in the background.

The picture made it to the online news edition within the hour. Mycroft was very proficient in taking it down and containing it from spreading. However, some _fans_ – Sherlock's surely, I wouldn't have them – seemed to save it in their electronic devises, and it keeps popping up like internet mushrooms. Mycroft's team is cracking on, but they can hardly stop all the snapshots, print screens and good old fashioned photos of computer screens – and a couple of rough pencil sketches – of the scene. I seem to have become somewhat of a legend overnight.

Like all flames burning too fast, it should die down on its own.

Mycroft's people even came up with a second version of the picture, altered by the best in the business (the ones that did the altered royal– _No, wait, sorry, I'm bound to secrecy on that story_ ). In that version, that I fully approve – _not that Mycroft has waited for my consent_ – Sherlock is present at the scene and in control. I actually thought it would be the end of it and I'd be able to go to work normally and resume every day's life without the fans, the reporters, the stalkers, the impersonators, and the psychotics' death threats.

But that was just the start of an image manipulation heaven and mayhem all in one. New pictures appeared, with famous actors cropped in, royal family members, historical figures, cartoon characters. And comments too. Some witty, others borderline rude, most of them disconcerting – a few I don't really get them.

If Sherlock understood their implied meaning, he's not saying. He just tells me they aren't insulting me and I can't get any more out of him.

 _I'm not referring to the ones that imply that Sherlock is just a front and I'm the clever one all along._ Those are plain silly. If they didn't hurt my friend's hard earned credibility I'd gold frame them and put them on the wall for everyone to see. _They're genial!_

 _They're also definitely wrong._

No, these days the press has coined me as a former soldier with almost superpowers. They completely ignore that I'm a doctor too. It's as if I've got that down to earth quality that they couldn't find in Sherlock and they absolutely bask on it. The average looking guy that used to introduce Sherlock at press conferences and thank the reporters, police officers and cleaning crew is the modest superhero London has been waiting for.

But as much as I'm being praised, I know the press will turn on me sooner or later. Either because I'm a fraud in terms of who they say I am, or just because they'll get bored and dig out dirt on me.

They did that once with Sherlock (I warned him too), and I won't forget it easily.

Sherlock has been quite supportive so far, but this is just one of those areas where the great genius can't foresee the future quite as well as I do. This is about the human element, you see. How a hero is soon to be the target of jealousy and mockery. I never wanted this. Sure I made a blog and appreciated when it got well-known. I just never wanted to be the central piece.

 _Never believed I could be, either._

I've taken quiet refuge in Baker Street at Sherlock's advice. He's been taking very seriously the stalkers, the fans, the journalists and the new influx of clients (that seem to find me more accessible than Sherlock Holmes). He's told me Mycroft Holmes can be credited to make Baker Street one of the most secure locations in the country.

I told him I just want to live my life, a simple life. It shouldn't be too hard, right? Sherlock glanced sharply at me, before going funnily quiet after that.

He should know; he's been the resident celebrity detective at Baker Street all these years.

Sherlock subtly inches towards the living room window from his seat at the wooden table. He minimises his evaluation of the scene outside, but I can tell by the stiff angles of his suit jacket the tension underneath, the one he can try to hide from me, of his attempt not to worry me that he can't quite iron out.

My friend the detective is not a man of crowds and loudness. Give him a quiet corner of London where he can play his violin and solve his mental puzzles instead and he'll take it any day.

He despises the acephalous conglomerate of followers downstairs (his words, not mine) that urge to be in my proximity with as much honesty as he detested the same crowds that revelled downstairs upon his return to the living a while ago. With a gut feeling of distrust, of one who's learnt his lesson time and time before.

'Leave them be, Sherlock', I request as I turn the page on the sports section of today's papers. Just about the only section where I don't risk finding a fleeting picture of me or a dodgy mention of my name. I'm tabloid material, temporarily. 'They'll grow tired eventually, and seek worthier idols.'

'Not soon enough', Sherlock grunts.

Too bad Greg Lestrade is in our living room this morning and he just heard Sherlock's offhanded comment. He glances between the two of his mates with a worried stance. Hell, he might even suspect Sherlock, the usually sought after genius, is feeling jealous of my fame right now.

 _I know he isn't._ If nothing else, in the least because Sherlock wouldn't want it for himself, and that's what a straightforward man like Greg can't see easily. Greg assumes being famous is a good thing, to be wished for. The attention, _the care_ , that seems to be present in every head that turns to scrutinise the famous person. On the surface it seems desirable.

 _I wonder if we can turn the tables on this._ Make Greg the famous one instead of Sherlock or me. He'd be happy, too.

Sighing I put down the paper as I come across a mention of a lucky score from a rugby team by an underrated player that was called "a Watson". _How much longer must I endure?_

'Family's proud, then?' Greg restarts awkward conversation. The inspector has come to visit us at Baker Street and didn't count on such a gloomy atmosphere. I'm startled by his words and need to think it through.

Then I groan. My lord, Harry's going to have a fit.

Sherlock hums thoughtfully, and I have the sneaky suspicion he's getting way ahead of me in foreseeing the horrible next couple of days I'm about to have. Multitasking, as always, while he adjusts the focus on his microscope on the table.

'Tea?' I ask Greg with my best polite smile. I'm sure only tea can pull me through at a time like this. Well, tea and my best mates, who have yet to leave my side. _I'm lucky that way._

 _ **.**_

 _ **ToBeContinued**_


	8. Chapter 8

_**2.**_

Greg Lestrade's furrowed brow reminds me of a brewing storm. Usually our friend's quirky trait is reserved to when he faces Sherlock Holmes and John Watson being reckless in order to solve a case. It comes up at Scotland Yard, at a crime scene, sometimes even at Baker Street like now.

I've never seen it pop up without being accompanied by a well-meant fatherly lecture, until today. Greg is preoccupied, tense and even angered at our behaviour, but he won't confront us. _It's that serious._

He also knows it's out of our hands this time.

I've pulled "a Holmes", that got known as "a Watson", and now all the town (and beyond) thinks I've solved one of Sherlock's spectacular cases, and some media even believe I'm the real hero while Sherlock is the front, and some so-called fans want way more than an autographed picture of me (some things they want of me I'm not even entirely sure it's legal). I'm confused, baffled and bloody uncomfortable.

'I can't hold the media, Sherlock', Greg answers to something Sherlock commented, given the status of the dense crowds gathered outside 221B.

'Or the fans.'

'They are not committing a crime. It's a public street and all they want is to see their new hero.'

 _Oh, there's definitely a hidden smirk in that last sentence, Greg._ He's finding it amusing, he really is.

'Well, you could stay put till they go away, John', the inspector braves on, 'But I'd appreciate if you could come to Scotland Yard so we can take your statements. I've come in a patrol car, that should make those people out there behave.'

'Doubtfully', Sherlock mumbles from the living room table.

From Sherlock's armchair the police inspector turns to the consulting detective and admonishes:

'Feeling jealous already, Sherlock? Not used to sharing the fame, are you?'

The jibe completely misses the target as the independent "I work better alone" detective doesn't even understand he's usually the one basking on the spotlight.

Not for the first time, I have a vague feeling that Sherlock really feels we are always in an equals partnership, and that he's never realised the press has usually left me out (well, at least after the whole "bachelor" angle finally died out).

I remember Sherlock protesting about the fans giving so much importance "to an ear-hat, John!" I was in the picture and no one mentioned my heat attire. I remember the press giving Sherlock praise for returning a kidnapped father to his wife and son, and how I had to force my way into standing next to Sherlock for the papers' front page picture. Sherlock hardly paid notice if I was there or not. Or maybe he even resented me for being there, because I was making him behave. Even when Richard Brook's lies were plastered all over the papers and Sherlock's reputation was being tarnished, even then I was little more than a footnote mention. Doctor Watson was the gullible sidekick and not a focus for the fabricated lies. All this time, I've been left alone by the public, ignored – and that suited me just fine.

I don't quite believe the all-observant detective fully appreciated my marginalised position. He certainly didn't force me to it – by mentioning me, praising or admonishing my contributions – and I always believed he felt that it was my natural position in the team. Not because I was less photogenic, and intellectually certified, but because he enjoyed having me around as a steady emotional support, a faithful shadow, a trigger-happy protector. And I couldn't be my best at all of those defining traits if I was frontline in the papers as I was in the action.

Sherlock may have not praised publically my protection contributions, but he always counted on me having his back. He may not have regarded me as the brightest person, but he depended on me to be his conductor of light. He didn't openly refer to my marksman ability, but he never failed to risk his life on it.

Sherlock acknowledged all my qualities in the work and in our friendship, he just doesn't often shine the spotlight on them.

I've got to make more tea all of a sudden; and Sherlock really needs to invest in more not-for-Science-use, everyday mugs. As the fragrance of the tea carries over from the mugs I take to my friends I can feel some of the tension easing off my shoulders.

I hold out the first, sickly sweet, tea to Sherlock that takes it carelessly. The second, one sugar one milk, goes out to Greg, who appears somewhat puzzled as he grabs it.

Oh, right, I had already made them tea. This is their second mug on a row. _What is wrong with me?_

'We won't keep you long at the precinct, John', Greg generously brings up a new topic of conversation. 'If you can just explain Sherlock's deductions to catch the art thief, it'll be all over in no time.'

I look over at Sherlock, wondering if I can reproduce his deductions faithfully. Have I even paid enough attention, tired and hungry, as he spilled them out in one of his fast monologues? And if I haven't, instead relying on a blind trust in my friend's genius, does that mean I've taken Sherlock's extraordinary gift for granted? What a disservice to play on my uniquely gifted friend, to have grown accustomed, _to expect_ his brilliance without giving it the full praise it deserves.

I think I told him it was brilliant; I usually do. I hope I did.

Hopefully he understood those weren't just hollow words of politeness. I really admire Sherlock's relentless genius streak.

Then it comes back to me; why the Whitechapel, just following the Albertina, why religious art and not sacrilegious pieces. All of Sherlock's masterful deductions come back through a thick fog as I force myself to remember.

'I'll do my best, Greg', I answer simply, in not uncalled for modesty. 'Sherlock's the one who makes it all sound perfectly logical, though.'

The inspector smirks. 'Going for a modest genius role, John? I get it.'

I take a sip of tea from my mug and it tastes bitter to me.

 _ **.**_

The scene outside 221's door is worst than it looked from the above windows. I had previously seen the vast numbers of eager faced journalists and curious spectators, I had heard their excited chatter, their restlessness whenever they sensed movement behind 221B's curtains. It had filled the bottom of my stomach with the fear of anticipation; and I'm a seasoned soldier used to life and death on the battlefield. _This world of unreasonable fame, however, is clearly not my world, I realised easily. Especially given that I'm a fraud and they are praising me for Sherlock's doings._

I turn around to face Sherlock, hoping against all hope that he can read my silent plead, and put an end to all this. Claim his deeds. Tell the truth. Any truth. Restore order and balance to the universe.

He fails to look at me. He misses the panic blossoming inside me.

Fine. I'll carry on. I'll face the battle. It's what I do. I may not be a clever detective hero, but I'll always be a soldier. I'll soldier on.

We cross 221's threshold. With me on the lead. The blinding flashes of the photographers almost make me trip over the front step. It'd be okay, though, I'd land on someone, softening my fall. We're all packed tight together, I'm being groped, shoved, pulled from all sides.

Disguising a deeper breath, I put on a brave smile on my face.

'Doctor Watson!' A woman yells louder in the crowd. 'Tell them my husband is innocent!' she pleads, emotionally.

I glance at DI Lestrade, who subtly shrugs – _no idea!_ – and then to Sherlock, who was giving her a once over look. Not without some disappointment, Sherlock reports: 'You can tell by her clear excess of makeup that she honestly believes her husband is guilty. She's trying to sell her exclusive story to two different tabloids at once and you taking her case, John, would give her the extra credibility she needs. Ignore her, John.'

I blink, as my friends push me along that small distance to the police car parked just outside 221B. Never felt like the sidewalk was this long before, being taken over by hundreds and hundreds of scrutinising eyewitnesses. I try to force the smile back onto my face; it comes out sterile, tentative.

'Doctor Watson, doctor Watson!' It's a child's voice and I immediately halt. I can ignore a whole street full of adults, but not the voice of a child, laced with worry and bravery alike.

I turn towards the child, and Sherlock mirrors me at once. Behind us, Greg is trying to impose some limits on the shoving and grovelling that my appearance outside has triggered.

'Doctor Watson, can you find Santa and tell him to bring me _all_ the presents I asked for? He's only got me seven and I asked for ten!'

I blink again, focusing on the five year old with freckles and not enough gifts from Santa. Where are his parents? Do they know he's come here?

'Well, can you?' The little brat seems positively ready to throw a tantrum – I can see the headlines already: "Watson makes little sad boy cry" – and I don't know what to say anymore. Not to the boy, or the reporters, or the so-called fans.

All I know is that I get now why Sherlock decided to misinterpret himself as a sociopath.

'Santa doesn't exist, it's really your mummy and daddy', Sherlock interjects at once.

'Sherlock, why would you tell him that?' I protest.

My friend can be worst than a spoiled five year old!

'And the Christmas present you haven't yet got under the tree is that you're going to have a little brother or sister, that is growing in your mummy's tummy. Take it from me, it's not all that nice. My brother Mycroft has never got over it.'

I fight an incredible urge to scrub my face with the palm of my hand. Instead, I hear Sherlock leading me on, seemingly innocent: 'Isn't that right, doctor Watson? Did I deduce right?'

 _Oh, yeah, I'm supposed to do that now..._

'Of course', I lie as convincingly as I can, 'anyone can see that by the pale colour of the boys new sweater, echoing the pale colours traditionally worn by newborns. Classic case of parents wanting their kids to all dress up the same', I add because this has the potential to be the lamest deduction ever made.

Sherlock, however, doesn't contradict me, and judging by those small crinkles showing at the corners of his eyes, my detective friend is deeply amused by my senseless inventions. Heaven forbid, he may have found himself a new hobby of thrusting me into the spotlight for impromptu fake deductions.

As a good friend, he's just not denouncing their silliness.

'Oi, stand back!' Greg starts again, trying to clear a path for me to the police car. 'Doctor Watson is a busy man, on his way to give testimony to Scotland Yard _and we don't have all day_. Just send him an email or a letter! You seem to know his address damned well!'

'Doctor Watson!' is called out just as I'm gratefully entering refuge of the police car.

'What?' I yell back, losing it for the first time. _Too many screams, too many people yelling my name, it echoes back the theatre of war and so many hopeless, miserable memories._

I look over and repent af once. That voice, I should have recognised it. Mrs Hudson is making her way with my scarf on her hands. She's bringing it over, not because it's particularly cold today. I suspect she's noticed how overwhelmed I've become and wanted me to see a friendly face before I left Baker Street's tumultuous crowds.

I exhale deeply and close my eyes for a couple of seconds, before taking up my scarf from her fragile old hands. 'Thank you so very much, Mrs H', I try to compensate the gentle landlady.

She shakes her head softly in sweet reproach. 'Just take care of our boy Sherlock, will you?'

I'm taken with surprise by her advice, but nod frankly at once. The driver chooses that moment to set the car going, slowly, through the thickening crowds of spectators. I watch quietly as we leave Mrs Hudson and 221B behind little by little.

It could be the weight of a metaphorical departure from the only place that instinctively felt like home from the start to me, but I'm at a loss as I clutch on to the scarf in my hands. I lean back on the car seat's dusty upholstery and close my eyes. The screams of my name fading away in the distance.

Not Sherlock or Greg interrupt my disconnect from reality, not yet. I don't think they'd know exactly what to tell me that could make it all better.

I'm a fraud, and praised for services I can't deliver. I'm the hero who can't save the ones calling out to him. Not all of them worthy, either. Among the helpless ones are the others who will try to deceive me, as a test, or manipulating me for their gain, or to make fun of me and have the upper hand in front of an audience. It's dangerous, and treacherous, and only Sherlock's quiet stand by my side gives me hope of seeing this through.

I open my eyes wide in the depressingly silent car ride. Sherlock is staring absently out of the window by his side, and Greg, in the front, has deeply embedded worry lines in his forehead.

My two good friends stand by me.

That will have to be all the help I need to see this through.

 _ **.**_

In my whole life, I've never had so many coppers getting me coffee. My statements at DI Lestrade's tiny glass panelled office were rudely interrupted somewhere between ten to fifteen times by uniformed and civilian clothed officers alike. All bringing me a complimentary cup of coffee. One could claim they came to size me up, but I know most of them from earlier crime scenes and to some of them I talk on a regular basis. That put my suspicions on the right track. They hadn't come with superfluous offers to see me; they were spying on Sherlock's and mine dynamics. They hoped to see a miffed genius, or a one-up sidekick. A grudge or a boast, depending on the half of the partnership you were keen to observe.

They were definitely wrong. Sherlock has shown me nothing but unity so far. Sure he's a little quiet since the whole misconception has broke out. But I take it he's still sensing the waters, getting used to this new arrangement with the public. Sherlock loves to have the things that matter to him unchanged. In an almost autistic streak to his genius personality, he dislikes when things change beyond his control, when he's not in control of the rules in his universe. Sherlock is at a loss in this fleeting brave new world. One thing, though, hasn't changed. Sherlock stands by my side.

'Congrats, Watson!'

Even Anderson has found a reason to bring me coffee, it seems.

I focus on the forensic technician with some surprise. 'Congratulations? What for?'

'Solving the art thefts case.'

'That wasn't me, that was Sherlock!' _Isn't it obvious for someone who knows us from more than a silly internet picture?_

He shrugs. 'That's not what everybody thinks.'

Lestrade and Sherlock have just gone out into another room to check some details on Sherlock's explanations of the thief's modus operandi. It's only me and Anderson in this small office right now.

'People are stupid if they can't recognise Sherlock's genius', I state, too exhausted to sugarcoat my words.

Anderson nods; his newfound faith in Sherlock Holmes is as unwavering as mine. 'Yeah, we both know that. But to get the praises he gets, the recognition, the admiration? What does it feel like, John? What I wouldn't give to have that even for a little while...'

'Even being a lie?'

He shrugs. 'How else are people like you and me going to get that sort of praise? We're normal, you and me, just plain normal... Well, not you, I guess. You get to be a part of his cases, John. He lets you in on them.'

I frown. 'I help Sherlock', I defend my contributions. 'I've saved his skinny–'

Anderson cuts me off at once, appeasing, and glances through the glass dividers of the office to make sure we're not attracting the division's attention. _Like I'd care._

'All I'm saying is... take advantage of this fame, John. You've earned it. You're always on Sherlock's side and never get the credits. I don't even think I've heard you get a compliment from the genius himself more than once. So I'd sit back, relax, and let them all... be nice to you. Praise you. Compliment you. Who knows when he'll slip up next and give you another shot at the spotlight?'

I blink, over and over again, because that was definitely awkward and surprising and I haven't a clue on how to answer Anderson.

 _Does everyone assume being famous is a good thing, and that I should crave it, even at the expense of my best mate being dismissed (at best) or being made a mockery of (at worst)?_

Luckily, Lestrade and Sherlock round the corner at that time, returning to the office and putting an end to this cringing, uncomfortable conversation.

I hide a deep sigh of relief.

 _ **.**_

 _ **ToBeContinued**_

* * *

 _A/N: I always mention Christmas when I post closer to the date, it's another of those recurrent lines of mine. It makes good fun when you read it back in a glorious summer day. And with a storm brewing just outside, this has kept me busy. Merry Christmas everyone! -csf_


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Still British, a writer or famous; and not counting on becoming any of those. -csf_

* * *

 _ **3**_ _ **.**_

Upon our return from the Scotland Yard the crowds awaiting for us at Baker Street had thickened in numbers and impatience. Bright flashes of light hatched from within the crowd from the moment our car turned the corner, directed at us. The crowd cheered, frantic, turning wild by absorbing their own long contained tension. People were cheering and jeering in the same breath, anything to get a reaction from us, one that would legitimise and energise their presence there, that could acknowledge the effort and time in their lives being dedicated to our lives, mine and Sherlock's. Catalogued as heroes, we were given no more privacy. Barriers had fallen off. We were now one of them. Turning away from them was as disrespectful as verbally stating that those persons bravely standing for hours on the street waiting for us didn't really matter to us. That would be factually wrong. They do matter. But whereas they saw two men they seemed to know so well, we saw an endless sea of strangers faces turned on us, all awaiting the same care and recognition they generously gave us. I guess they deserved as much. But the daunting task of greeting and meeting a still thickening crowd on an individual level was intimidating.

The crowd was about to turn on us; I could sense the shifting tide. All because we were too human to live up to their expectations.

The cab parks right at 221's door at last. We're just two or three steps away from the front door of our refuge. I stiffen my jaw as I prepare to face the human wall separating this POW from freedom.

I'm about to open my door, the closest to the sidewalk, when I hear Sherlock exiting the cab first, from the other side. I'm mesmerised as I watch him get reluctant passage around the car, as the edgy crowd detects his arrogant stance, backing off slightly.

 _Neat trick; wish I had it in me, but I don't._

Before I can open the cab door as my hand rests on its handle, it springs open by itself. I jump of my seat, startled. But as I look out, it's Sherlock I see just outside, waiting patiently for me to come out. He reminds me of a bodyguard, protecting me. Perhaps echoing the times I have done this for him.

It warms my heart and sooths my spirit. With Sherlock standing strong by my side I can do this. I can even try to enjoy it, as Anderson suggested.

When it comes down to it, my best friend's protective streak doesn't change the strangeness of the recent events. I count myself lucky as I wholeheartedly accept my friend's guidance in this celebrities world he's learnt to navigate already as I – unknowingly – helped spring on him with my blog.

 _ **.**_

Waiting for us in the quietness of 221B was a pile of letters, big and bold, on the living room table. Sherlock ignores them from afar, as he starts pacing the room, absentminded. I go pick them up out of an old habit. Mechanically I'm about to nag Sherlock about his correspondence, and how he routinely ignores their urgency making me go through them for him, when I notice the top ones are addressed to me. And the middle ones. Then there's one for a mysterious"doctor Wilson" and then all the others insist I'm "doctor Watson".

Sherlock's been temporarily left out of his own consulting business.

'You're having fun', my friend snaps at me, with just a look into my eyes. Holding himself perfectly still now, as if he's found his prey.

I feel awkward but brave on: 'Well, yes, a bit, Sherlock. Never in my life have I got such a reception.'

'You like it.' There's something borderline indecent in the way he denounces my pleasure in being sought after by people in need. As if I wished for their need. _I don't._

'Helping people with their life changing problems? What is there not to like?' I battle on.

He's now circling me, studying me with the attention he usually reserved for his toughest crime scenes, and it's hypnotic.

'It's not about the power', he reads me. 'Good. It's too much power for one sane individual to have.'

'Oi!' I defend both our sanities at once. He steps back, thoughtfully, but soon starts again:

'You are a giving person, John. Whether it's the jumper off your back, or lending money you'll never see again (and I'll pay you back those five hundred pounds next week), or even giving up your time to our work when you can hardly afford it because you work too much on your other job...'

'My real job, you mean', I correct patiently.

'It's all the same, John', he continues, unaffected. 'You think that if you had what you call my "gift" you could save the world, one person at a time.'

'I'm not that naïve.' I give him a captain Watson patented glare.

'But you are that idealist', he strikes back. Then turning around sharply to the window he stops scrutinising me and simply concedes: 'We'll do it your way then, John. For the rest of the weekend you'll be the great Baker Street's detective. Not to worry, I'll provide you the genius, you'll be the front. You can have a taste of what it's like for me.'

I can feel an anger surge through me, although I can't tell where it's coming from. I know this is a battle. He'll volunteer the rationality for the weekend, will he? Does he seriously think my life is that easy? I just get up in the morning performing stupid medical tasks till I grown weary and go to bed at night?

I can show Sherlock what my "other job" is like, in return.

'This weekend in Baker Street, Sherlock, and you'll have a couple of days at the surgery with me when this is all over. Is that a deal?'

He'll handle the patients, their concerns, their raw humanity when faced with serious illnesses... _You have no idea what it is like for me either, Sherlock._

He shrugs, giving in to our little arrangement. _Maybe not aware of the full implications of our deal._ I'll make sure this happens faster than those five hundred pounds I'll probably never see again. The weird thing is that Sherlock is usually... rich. Unlike me, I'm always tight for money. Surely he didn't borrow the money just to see if I'd lend him and for pong I'd patiently wait to have it back... Would he?

'Fine, John, if you insist, I'll do your job for you as well. Although my speciality is with the dead ones... After you, John', he leads me on with the tip of an ominous outstretched finger towards his metal and leather armchair.

I hesitate for a second. _What am I getting into?_

The leather seat that has been carrying everyone but Sherlock himself today is comfortable and well-angled towards the whole flat. I'm the first person a visitor coming in sees and I can keep careful watch over them the whole time they're there. It makes me feel important, if a well placed chair can do that.

I hesitate for a mere second. _What have we got ourselves into?_ Is this... ethical?

With a deep breath, I give in. If there's a thing Sherlock should know about stubborn John Watson is that he won't back away from a challenge. _Bring-it-on._

 _He does._

Sherlock mysteriously moves behind the chair to the window, opening it, and shouts out to the crowd waiting below. _To the real Baker Street._

'Doctor John Hamish Watson will now take cases. One at a time, he'll see everyone. You get two minutes to expose your case and he'll email you the solution to your predicament!' With one glance over his shoulder to my panicked face, he then adds: 'Don't spare doctor Watson of even the most trivial ones!'

I swallow dry, as I hear clients rushing in.

 _ **.**_

There would be no "one at a time". I sat at Sherlock's chair, with my notebook on my knee. On the opposite armchair sat a restaurant chef, a fireman, two flamenco dancers, triplets, an old man, four loveless young ladies (no, the "bachelor" bit was overrated... Sherlock, could you show them the door now?), a zookeeper, three undercover police officers wanting assistance on their ongoing investigations, a school kid looking for his pet hamster, a landlord, a teacher, a burglar, a dentist, and Mrs Hudson (for curiosity sake).

A couple of hours has gone by already and I'm floored by exhaustion. Not to mention all the typing I'll need doing with what Sherlock feeds me from the case resolutions.

'Get it now, John?' he asks me, as Mrs Hudson goes back downstairs and a real client has yet to come up. _What he's really asking me is "giving up yet, John?"_

 _No._

He chuckles, not innocent at all. 'Have it your way, John.' He turns to the door, and I muffle a whimper, but just smile for my next client coming in.

 _ **.**_

'John?' It's Sherlock's sleep-filled voice that startles me, sounding both worried and amazingly human. He comes up the corridor in quiet steps, his dressing gown flapping behind him like his long coat does during the day. He looks like he's just woken up, wavy hair in disarray and puffed cheeks, hopefully not because I woke him with the white overhead light I kept on in the kitchen. He frowns as he finds me at the table, confirming his suspicions.

'It's past four in the morning, John.'

I nod. I know.

'The emails?' It dawns on him, slowly, what has been keeping me up. With possessive long fingers he grabs my notebook from the table. 'You emailed the ballerina to tell her where her missing dog was? The dog must have been found and returned by now, even before you sent her the answer!'

'I promised to reply, Sherlock', I remind my friend as I sip some coffee, cold by now. 'I'm afraid I'm not the fastest typist.'

'That's not how you spell"detective", John', he suddenly zooms in on my laptop screen. 'You overlooked good spelling in your current state.'

I push him out of the way to better see the screen. _Oh, great! Now I'm a weekend "detektive" with bad spelling skills._

Sherlock pulls a chair to seat by my side. 'I cheated', he tells me, attentively. 'You know I don't take every case. You shouldn't either.'

I nod. 'I know. But this weekend I will.'

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Of course you want to help everyone. Very selfless of you.'

I nod again. 'I can try.'

'You're a doctor, doctor', he's mocking me now. 'Why not go out there and heal everyone in the world? There's plenty of sick people to keep you busy...'

'Because there are other doctors, Sherlock.'

'There are other detectives too.'

'You're one of a kind, Sherlock. You're the best.' I explain what he should know by now. His face softens at once.

'Let the others get the easy cases, John. Suits me best, too. I don't like to waste my time with cases under a Seven.'

I blink. My friend's quirky rule starts to make good sense at last. Or is it the late hour influencing me?

'Now, John, will you go rest?' he asks of me, softly.

I nod at last, feeling more dead than alive.

'And John?' he still calls, looking fleetingly guilty.

'Yes?' I face him honestly.

'Part of those people standing out there on the street today were not clients.'

'I get it. Some just wanted to look at us.'

'More than that. Some were from my irregular network, John.'

I strain my tired attention to Sherlock.

'You fear the much for our safety?'

He rolls his eyes. 'No, I wanted there to be hundreds of persons on the street outside 221B.'

I blink. 'What for? To frighten me?'

He becomes impatient and gets up without answering me. Leaving me only with that confession of his involvement.

Why would Sherlock want to ensure there were so many people calling out my name in earnest on the street, calling me a hero?

 _ **.**_

 _ **ToBeContinued**_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Reaching the double digits on the chapters count, making it ten in a month. Sorry. It just... sort of happened._

 _Smaller chapter, by the way, for chapter's logic sake._

 _Still not British, a writer or a hedgehog (but in this holiday season I've been hibernating a lot). -csf_

* * *

 _ **4**_ _ **.**_

In the end Sherlock would find himself a Seven in the fresh pile of letters to a Baker Street's detective. Or maybe it was a Six or even a Five, stretched out by Sherlock to get me away from the growing pile of letters, emails, blog replies and other requests through friends and acquaintances. At some point, early in the morning, Sherlock would confiscate my phone to keep me from seeing all those forwarded messages from our friends. _But I still know they're there and count on getting through them as well._

 _ **.**_

Sherlock is already up, playing soothing melodies in his violin, by the time I come downstairs. One glance at my haggard ashen features, as I set out to make us tea, and he redoubles the intensity with which he plays, backing away from the open violin case after all.

'Sherlock... Wanna come have some breakfast?' Of course I know he hasn't had anything yet.

The tension of the bow on the strings falters for an instant as he ponders me, before accepting. _We take care of each other in unspoken ways, from the big grand gestures to the small details of everyday life._

It could be a regular, nondescript morning, just like so many others at 221B, just...

'Oh, Sherlock...' I bow my head down after flipping my fingers through the side of the tall fresh new pile of letters. So many letters, so many requests for help. They keep arriving through the postal service.

I used to see my friend go through the correspondence and feel proud of his deserved success. The amount of good Sherlock could do in this world, the vast number of lives he could touch, protect, spare, better. Sherlock's the hero I wanted to be all my life; as a doctor healing the sick and the wounded, as an active duty soldier trying to secure peace in a war zone, in the hidden battles of London alongside Sherlock. If, for a moment in time, I could share a tiny part of his good deeds, then I considered myself privileged.

But it comes with a price.

This is what I failed to see before my eyes. That every choice came heavily weighted down with the ones he didn't take, the cases he abandoned. I mean, the man hardly eats or sleeps, and is determined to perfecting himself as a reasoning machine. And in his great heart's generosity I know that those cases he left behind, he left them in the trust that the Metropolitan police, the Scotland Yard, the FBI, the CIA, _any one organization_ , would pick them up. Because Sherlock alone could not save everyone, solve all the cases.

Early on I took on a personal assistant role (sort of), in Baker Street. That was easy and it allowed me to mask from Sherlock's attentive gaze the growing number of requests a day he had. The man would easily let himself burn out from overworking. As for the handful of cases that reached him, he chose them through his very own peculiar system. _Boring... Boring... Boring... Not worth my time... Not worth the paper it's written on... Obvious!... Boring... Too late... Boring... John, we've got a case! It's a Six!_

Often I'd put the best ones at the bottom of the pile so he'd gave to go through all the selection.

As I sit at the kitchen table, holding this new pile of letters – _cries of help_ – in my hands, I feel utterly useless, helpless, _lost_.

I don't know which ones of these are the most important ones in my own criteria – life threatening, honour avenging, out of the police sphere? – I don't know who to choose, and who to ignore.

So, in a Watson's good old-fashioned common sense, _I need to take them all_.

It's going to be another long day.

And then, I hope Sherlock has a plan to get this farce sorted, to put things back the way they were. I liked how things were.

'Mycroft can fix this', Sherlock states, fuming nevertheless. I glance up from the bread I'm feeding the toaster to the generous detective standing up and loitering by the kitchen table. _He'd take it back now, accept the full burden of responsibility again, to help me._

I shake my head slowly. 'Mycroft's meddling has only made it worse. For once he didn't predict the public's response right. His modified photographs just fed the controversy and accelerated the madness, Sherlock... Anyway, where's your brother these days? Hiding from his blundered performance? Busy pursuing another foreign war? Covering up some diplomat's indiscretion? Ruling a third world country as a pastime?'

Sherlock opens his mouth to talk, for the second time during my rant, but again he holds back.

'Sorry', I control myself. 'You're not your brother's keeper, after all.'

That seems to have the perverse response of making Sherlock's mind up.

'Mycroft's busy, creating extra security measures surrounding you, John, at my request. As much as I personally dislike it, your venture into the spotlight has increased the danger upon your life, John, and that no Holmes ever takes lightly.'

I blink. There's potent defy in Sherlock's demeanour and just a hint of that dark revengeful energy that is _so Sherlock_ as the clever deductions at crime scenes.

'Your brother cares about my wellbeing, does he?' I summarise at last, with a smirk.

With a blank smile, Sherlock opts out.

I shake my head, having had enough with the geniuses enigmatic answers. Sherlock looks slightly put off that I don't appreciate his cleverness fully.

'John, will you insist on seeing this through?' he asks me over a piece of toast, speaking with his mouth full. _Great by me_ ; I've distracted him, he's eating breakfast.

'It's what we Watsons do', I answer with a shoulder shrug. 'And before you ask, yes, my sister Harry is as stubborn as any Watson.'

'I'm aware', he answers ominously. Funny, I thought they had scarcely met, Sherlock and Harry. They'd have instantaneously dislike for one another's self-destructive paths and abundant self satisfying laziness. Before I can think it through, Sherlock comments: 'She's also under the Holmes' scrutiny as your closest living relative.'

'No one would harm Harry.' I'm more worried to whom she'll throw a mean punch.

'Your sister has been approached for her story by two tabloids and three television shows. They wanted her to talk about you, John.'

I blink. 'She wouldn't...'

'One show with a very attractive lady presenter...' Sherlock adds. I groan in despair, lowering my head in defeat.

The silence that follows is only pierced by the detective's muffled chewing of the crunchy toast, while he acts all impervious about siblings.

Suddenly Sherlock stands up and declares, one of today's letters in his hand: 'But I have a case. A Seven, I think. It will force you to leave the flat, John. Hopefully my presence by your side will allay your fears over your safety.'

I blow a raspberry at that. 'I can stand my own ground, Sherlock.'

'And', he proceeds without paying attention, 'to ensure just that we'll rely on a detective's oldest trick in the book: we'll disguise ourselves.'

'What!' I'm not even sure I'm protesting because it's childish or because it'll never work. There's a sea of people outside in Baker Street who would recognise us better than our own mothers.

'You need a break and some adrenaline rush, John, and I'm getting bored by this domestic safe version of a detective you make. We should go out and solve cases.'

Oddly enough, Sherlock's offer to play truant feels tantalising and engaging. If we were gone only for a couple of hours... Would anyone really notice we had gone?

 _ **.**_

 _ **ToBeContinued**_


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: If everything goes to plan, this is the one before last. I may have gone a bit overboard, though, sorry. -csf_

* * *

 _ **5**_ _ **.**_

Baker Street, just outside the homely refuge of 221B, is filled with curious, resilient people who have come to watch a hero detective. By some weird twist of fate, though, they got it wrong. They think I'm the hero of Baker Street. Mind you, I've got my qualities and all. I'm just not on a Sherlock-level of genius as they seem to believe. And now we may just have made it all worse, because we played along. Sherlock did it for fun; feeding me the deductions that I would then relay by email or letter. And to make a point, too. Not the one about it being exhausting long hours or the one about worrying over the cases left behind. Sherlock accepted the current public misconception to show me what it's like to be the hero of Baker Street.

Call me a shy idiot, but I didn't like it.

Only a Sherlock-sized ego can withstand such pressure for results. People forget easily my friend is only human.

But, being me, I don't give up on the first hurdle either. Keeping my eyes on the end line (Sherlock promised me it would be over, and all universal credit returned, by the end of the weekend) I've then had no excuse not to dive in, headfirst, into my best effort to solve _everybody's_ cases. One last stretch before the finish line.

Again, Sherlock complied, feeding me more solutions to the incoming cases. I just kept milking the genius for deductions, however trivial the cases appeared to be. I needed to help them all, I wouldn't risk a life-threatening case slipping through on my watch. Be at fault because a life got lost, or some other horrible fate, because I played the genius detective, knowing I'm definitely not one.

Then, of course, Sherlock got bored. It was really a matter of time. He thinks I'm overcautious, overzealous and _no fun_. He too wants to save all lives, he just doesn't force himself to do it in a weekend.

And when my friend promised me a Seven out of a boring pile of correspondence (no, really, I don't mean that, of course every case is important and I do take them all seriously!) and challenged me to solve cases our old way (on the field, not at a laptop), just us two, having fun, away from the prying eyes of the public... I gave in. Of course I did. Because we were both so desperate for the fun, risk-filled, exciting part of case solving.

Being a detective by correspondence is overrated.

I couldn't say No to Sherlock. Call it a small break. I'll make it up to the clients when we come back.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock and I went out through the back, over Mrs Hudson's bins and the side alley. Our landlady really didn't mind, she seemed to find it quite natural that we'd exit 221 Baker Street over a fence. She waved us goodbye, and bid us to be careful, after she promised us she'd have a lovely homemade lemon drizzle cake ready upon our return. I tried to tell her how amazing she is, but she would wave me off, assuming I was "trying to be pleasant to a batty old lady". I told her, in that case, I want "to be as batty as she is, someday". Sherlock interjected at that point: "We already are, John". Given that he said that while sitting on top of the high wood fence of Mrs Hudson's back lot, a leg dangling on each side, and a hand stretched out to help me up (I'm shorter, I don't quite have the thrust alone), I agreed on principle.

Once on the narrow side alley we completed our disguises. Sherlock was adamant we shouldn't complicate them, simplicity was the key. And, of course, we had to work with what we had available. Which in Sherlock's case was a lot, an in mine, next to nothing.

Sherlock wanted to disguise himself as someone entirely unrelated – "An old nun?" I ventured as an offhanded guess, but he didn't think it quite funny. Someone who would blend in the crowds, he added. So we had a little peek through the window before we came down.

Turns out a lot of people in the crowd had come up dressed like their new heroes; and I'm proud to report there were not only Johns, but Sherlocks as well.

"Well, that should make it easier", Sherlock commented appreciatively. And here I thought he'd be disturbed by the Sherlock doppelgängers. "When hiding a tree, where would you put it?" he asked me, casually. It's a riddle, I knew this one.

"In a forest..." I frowned at once. "You want us to go out there like we are because they'll assume we can't be the real deal?"

"Not quite. Don't want to win the prize of best disguised as myself, really", he told me, way too amused.

So, in the end, we joined the crowds outside looking like ordinary people and not some silly, over-the-top impersonations. Sherlock muffled himself up to the nose in my scarf and covered his luxurious dark hair with a bean hat. "Simplicity is credible, John." Hunching himself slightly to take a few inches off his height and limping for good measure. As for me, I'm no born actor. I just put on the green parka Moriarty got me when we had an explosive date poolside. It's warm and it fits me; actually, it never fails to make me break into a sweat even in the coldest days.

We walked together a couple of streets in complete anonymity until Sherlock deemed it safe to hail a passing cab.

It'd only be in the safety of the backseat of a cab that Sherlock would allow me to see the letter he had chosen as a trigger to our daring escape from fame.

 _ **.**_

Sometimes Sherlock Holmes finds himself mysteries in the most unexpected places.

Finally holding in my hands the letter that caught my friend's expert attention, I read from it:

 _Dear doctor Watson,_

 _it has come to my attention that you and Mr Sherlock Holmes enjoy the weird cases. I wouldn't know what you call a weird case myself, but what has been going on in my back garden has certainly been weird. I don't know what to make of it, doctor Watson. It's about the washing line, you see. Things keep on disappearing from it. And always my adult son's uniform too. He's lost his two that the electronic store has provided and I think he'll have to pay for a new one. He'll be angry when I tell him. He doesn't know it yet, it's his day off and he's gone to his girlfriend's. And I was so careful, but then the phone landline rang with a wrong number and I was gone only a minute. Maybe two._

 _If you have any idea who might be doing this, doctor Watson, I'd be most appreciative if you could help. I trust my neighbours, even the odd ones at the end of the street, and they wouldn't do it._

 _I can pay you a tenner, doctor Watson, twenty pounds if you find both uniforms, but not more because that's more than buying the uniforms new._

 _Please feel free to come and see the back garden._

 _Yours faithfully,_

 _Gertrude Chandler_

I glance over at Sherlock with puzzled merriment. This is his Seven? How desperate was my friend to get us out of the flat in silly disguises?

'By the way, you didn't take her son's uniform, did you, Sherlock?' I ask him with a fond smirk.

He has a significant amount of disguises that he keeps in a trunk on his bedroom, after all. Sherlock smirks. 'No. But I will, if she doesn't pay you that tenner, John.'

'Ta', I play along, with reserved suspicion. 'So, what do you suppose this is all about? Someone trying to access the electronics store to rob it at closing time? Someone infiltrating a public event as a repair technician to plant a bomb? Someone trying to hack into the Tower of London and steal the Crown Jewels like Moriarty did?'

'Moriarty didn't actually steal them', he corrects me.

'Only because he wanted to get caught.'

'Nonsense. He wanted to impress me. It's always harder to infiltrate high security than to leave with the goods, John.'

'So, some sort of terrorist activity?'

He shakes his head slowly. 'It's too early and too dangerous to infer without enough facts, John.'

'What are we supposed to do? Just sit back and wait?' I protest.

'Precisely. I knew you'd see the advantage of leaving the flat very soon, John!' he answers whatever he thinks I said, absentminded.

I groan and settle back on the seat, picking at the lose threads on my jumper's cuff.

 _ **.**_

Apparently one of the leading disguise specialists in the thieving world is a bus driver during the day. One would think the man earns enough for a living the illegal way so not to bother with a regular day job. But, according to Sherlock, this thief's true passion are busses. And the occasional long distance coach. His phone ringtone is even the children's song "the wheels on the bus". Yes, I would know it. His phone keeps ringing from inside his pocket as he lies splayed out on the lower level of the double-decker. Sherlock doesn't mind the call in progress, as he searches the knocked out man for concealed weapons. There's no one else on the bus because we met the thief bus driver at the depot, where Sherlock and I forced our way in. No possible hostages or witnesses worked well in our favour until the bus driver recognised Sherlock (yes, Sherlock, not me, I'm a recent hero) and floored the acceleration pedal. As if it wasn't enough, he then swung the steering into mad curves to throw us off balance. Then there was the illegal gun pointing (sadly, not mine) and a disarming fight. Somehow the acceleration pedal got stuck all the way down. Now we're crossing the streets of London at seventy miles per hour while angered people at bus stops protest we didn't stop for them. All the while I'm now at the wheel, Sherlock is securing the suspect, and hopefully the gas will run out very soon.

'Sherlock, I don't think he took Chandler's uniform!' I shout as I narrowly avoid the incoming car at a large roundabout and steady our corse to endless circular loops till the fuel ends. The traffic around the roundabout grinds to a complete halt, confused drivers honking and cursing at us.

'No, John, I don't think he did, either', Sherlock gives in at last, sitting elegantly on the next seat to the unconscious driver, holding on to the security bar. For anyone to see, he's enjoying the merry-go-round. 'He did, however, steal the Swedish diplomat's daughter's emerald necklace. That should keep Scotland Yard and my brother from fussing too much.'

 _ **.**_

I'm seriously not gifted at Opera, I admit easily.

Too bad I've been thrust by Sherlock into the London's Royal Opera House stage as one of the support actors (and singers, there's that too) that are now fluidly choiring the play in Italian. I'm just mouthing silently, praying no one in the audience notices. And secretly cursing Sherlock, of course. He's found himself a rather comfortable spot in the orchestra pit with someone's spare violin. Given his musical talent he can read the score at first sight and keep up easily with the rest of the musicians. Lucky him, having the audience engaged on the stage happenings instead.

It appears that actors on major stage productions are among the highest rated disguise specialists on Sherlock's informal list. And we just wanted to infiltrate backstage on this grand opera to check on the leading diva. She has quite a collection of purloined items stashed away, according to the detective.

Somehow Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were about to be found out – now that Sherlock finally has the physical key and deduced the security code to the diva's stolen goods warehouse – when all the participants were about to resume their places in the orchestra and on the stage. That's when Sherlock thought we could just join them for the first act.

Now I'm lip-singing in a language I can't really speak, waiting for the end of the first part, so we can go backstage and disappear.

We lead a strange life.

And this trial-and-error approach of Sherlock to solving the missing electronics store uniform is not getting us anywhere.

One could almost believe he's doing it on purpose to get me out of the flat.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock doesn't want to talk about the phone call. He sulked all the way through my interrogation of what he had been told by the client. Apparently she came up with the solution of the daylight robbery (as she calls it). May have been of the most inconsequential sort but Sherlock had taken quite a shine to the case.

Turns out her son didn't acquire a new uniform.

And no one was to rob the electronics store, there wasn't a prison break fugitive on the run, or a foreign nation's spy acting as a next door neighbour, and most certainly the woman wasn't deluded about having a son to begin with.

It happened to start raining that's all, that day the uniform went missing. And the son had taken it out of the washing line, disregarding anything else there, getting wet.

Mundane, I'm afraid, and Sherlock was bitter and resentful at once.

She didn't pay us our tenner. "You didn't even face a criminal", she'd defended over the phone.

After our insane escape from the madness surrounding 221B, it was time to return to it. If for nothing else, I was glad to have had proof that nothing had changed between Sherlock and me. In the mechanics of the case, the potential level of fame any of us holds with the public is inconsequential and doesn't even come to mind. In the battles of London, fuelled by adrenaline and action, we are equals.

Still upset with his Seven turning to a One, Sherlock saw me back to Baker Street and again disappeared in the anonymous crowd. He wasn't very explicit, but I think he went to take advantage of his current mood to cross words with his brother at the Diogenes.

As for me, I dutifully picked up where I had left.

 _ **.**_

'John?'

I'm startled awake by Sherlock's voice as the detective is making his way back in to 221B. Slowly, for he looks puzzled, he glances around the recent changes in the familiar living room. There are piles of books everywhere, opened files, maps spread on the wall, a couple of laptops going, and an old eight millimeter film projector at the end of the reel repeating monotonous clicks.

Looking at my confused friend, I wish I had been a bit more tidy now, for there is also a box of half eaten pizza on his armchair _(not good, John)_.

I tiredly raise my gaze to Sherlock. I could have forgotten he lives here.

'Hi, Sherlock. I'll clear the mess in a second. Had a nice time?'

He comes to stand in the middle of the room, as an island of neatness in the mess. He looks so very composed, in sharp contrast with his exhausted sidekick.

What Sherlock does in his head, I tried to do myself in a clumsier way, in his absence.

The requests for help keep coming in, steadily.

'John...' he repeats, giving my name a richness of tone that multiplies the emotions withheld. He then checks himself and points out: 'Been busy, then.'

I glance at the growing pile of letters by my armchair. _Not nearly enough._ 'Well, the telly is bust.'

Sherlock diverges his gaze from the letters to the television. 'You need to plug it on the wall, John.' _Oh, right._

He dry swallows. 'Was there more food and drink than those pizzas?'

'Yeah, coffee. Plenty of it. My hands are shaking. Why? Did you poison something on the fridge?'

'And did you have any rest at all?'

It's nighttime. The street outside has finally gone quiet. This is my chance to catch up.

I shrug. He reads the blankness of my expression easily. Anyway, is Sherlock really paying attention to my eating and resting?

Sherlock moves towards his chair, I'm sat at the living room table, doubling as a professional desk. He's circling and climbing over stacks of books, boxes and letters. I try to get up to help Sherlock put away the pizza leftovers, he immediately holds out his hand, denying me in an imperative gesture. _He's really possessive about his armchair, damn._

'John, I urge you to please remain seated.'

'Why?' I suspect.

'Because your chair has too much stuff on it.'

'And?' I ask, my voice suddenly faltering slightly. Soon 221B starts spinning. What's going on?

'And you are about to collapse and I need to get you a place to rest.'

 _What?_

 _Oh, he's right._

As I lapse onto unconsciousness, there's a last moment confident grasp on my shoulders that keeps me from colliding against the floor. I hardly notice being propped in his armchair, the cool leather coming into contact with my overheated forehead. Then everything merges into the colour black.

 _ **.**_

 _ **ToBeContinued**_


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: (Long) last one of this plotline. Then I think I'll do a break while the professionals give us another series._

 _Never British, a writer, a doctor, a detective, or anything other than myself. -csf_

* * *

 _ **6.**_

'This letter was also sent to the police... This one is a fabricated lie, notice the incoherence between past and present tenses... This one was also sent to the press, this person obviously wants to be famous and worries very little about the actual case... This one mentions the case is already with the police, so let Scotland Yard come to us if we're needed... This one is a copy of the third one in that other pile... This one is an electricity bill, not a case...'

I hastily lean forward to grab the electricity bill before it hits the harsh flames of the fireplace. Sherlock has taken control of sorting the correspondence and he's not shy about it.

'There you go, John, two interesting cases in fifty-eight letters and email prints', he returns a couple of pieces of paper with an efficient air to him.

I look around the room to the scattered, messy evidence of all the work I did, that he's just rendered useless. I should be frustrated, angered, but in fact I feel immensely relieved. It's a load off my shoulders. And as for those two interesting cases...

'I'll help you, John', my friend declares at once. Possibly because he's really intent on keeping me sitting down, recuperating my strengths. Possibly because he's missed this. 'That is...' Sherlock adds with a knowledgeable smirk '...if you'll have my help.'

 _Of course I will._ I smile, holding nothing back. It hits me just then how I never asked Sherlock if he'd have my help in his amazing work. I seamlessly fell into place, filled the gaps. Found my way through his needs and my strengths naturally.

Sherlock should never have to ask me if he can help.

'I'd be honoured, Sherlock', I haste to say out loud.

His smirk slides across his face to a fully pledged smile. He expected as much, but sometimes the incredible, vain genius is paradoxically shy. He enjoys having these things laid out. It doesn't surprise him, though, he expected this much. _Good._

I add, thoughtfully: 'I'll even take Mycroft's help, if he can set this mess right.'

Sherlock won't tell me if or how Mycroft plans to help us. Yet I know he won't forget our arbitrary deadline of the weekend's end. _Can't wait._ And afterwards, now that I know the burden of Sherlock's work through first-hand experience, I'll make sure some things change, and that my genius friend has all the support he may need.

Night is falling over London, marking the end of Sunday. For an instant I ponder if I should have taken better advantage of my fame, coming to an end too. If I wasted the opportunity to be John, the super-hero.

 _Nah._ I feel like a hero every time I work with Sherlock and I'll be glad when I get my anonymity back. I can get why those comics super-heroes were as fond of their masks as they were of their capes.

 _ **.**_

Unexpectedly, the client called again. I mean the electronics store employee's mother. Amazingly, Sherlock managed to pick up on who she was. He usually deletes past clients very quickly. _I guess this time he was still grumpy about how the case ended._

At the phone, Sherlock's mood changed swiftly. Although he answered her in monosyllabic words, he snatched _my_ phone and typed in it at fast speed at the same time. He then handed me back my phone, knowing very well I'd read back his messages.

He sent Lestrade a text to go to Mrs Chandler's address. As she had told her son about the stolen uniform he had become violent (drugs? schizophrenia?) and now she fears for him, but wants no police involvement.

So we've come to her house at once, persuaded by her emotional state. Sherlock and I have come up to the adult son's room upstairs, while Lestrade talks it over with the mother, off the records for now.

All of a sudden, I get this feeling that the case isn't over after all. Sherlock seems to agree as he closes a drawer full of neat rolls of socks. 'What we see in here doesn't seem to match his abrupt changes of behaviour.'

'I can see it', I comment quietly. Sherlock faces me, waiting for my input, with that confident expectation he has for when I'm the one verbalising the emotions. I try to explain: 'Young adult, stuck in a life with no apparent way out. Zero hours contract at work, conflicted in today's demanding, image-glorifying society. In his pictures, he's always wearing expensive status symbols. But all this pictures are old, four or five years old. There's your disconnect, Sherlock.'

He stands behind me, looking over my shoulder to the laptop's wallpaper, showing a smiling younger Chandler and some friends, partying on an abandoned site. 'How do you know it's five years old?'

'No one does that type of dance anymore, Sherlock.'

My friend looks sideways at me. I don't comment. _I learnt that from the telly, anyway._

'We know where to find Chandler', Sherlock says, confidently.

'Do we?'

He points at the picture's background. An old derelict factory, perhaps. 'There. Graffiti tags on the walls, from a very specific artist with a small geographical area as his canvas. And there, the tip of a church's steeple in the distance. This is an old abandoned factory by the Thames.'

'What now, Sherlock?'

'We go meet Chandler. It'd be rude not to show up to his invitation.'

 _ **.**_

Sherlock was right, as usual. Among the fog swirling up from the river we find the abandoned factory, quite a way off the city centre. Just a skeleton of a building remaining for the most part, the crumbling plaster on the outside walls reminding me of old skin sagging with age. The perfect hideout for teenager kids having fun, or for an adult criminal waiting for Sherlock Holmes.

A smiling detective and a suspicious blogger make their way into the quiet building. As we head upstairs through the dark, illuminating our way with our phone's torches, I can feel the adrenaline level rising in my blood.

'Be prepared, John. Chandler's much more dangerous than we have credited him for.' One look at my friend and I cannot doubt his words. All his face reads engaged, daring, alive.

Great way to end a terrible weekend.

And then we find Chandler. Just a shadow against the cold white moonlight coming in through a window behind him. Immobile, tense, he manages to give me shivers with the eeriness of the carefully crafted scene. He's been waiting for us, clearly.

'Fancy finding you here', Sherlock comments casually, but not without a smug smile.

The man in the actual (not) purloined electronics store uniform turns around slowly. Unfortunately, he has the control in the bare, desolate room, as he holds on firmly to a gun on his hand. The only gun in the room.

I glance at Sherlock, instinctively memorising each of our strategic positions in the room, the door behind us, the large smudged window facing the cold flow of the Thames below. Now, if Sherlock keeps Chandler engaged with fast deductions or clever tirades, then I could use a moment of distraction to gain the upper hand and finish this tense standoff. Chandler is not known to be a particularly vicious criminal, but he's unpredictable as a wild card.

'Mr Sherlock Holmes', he acknowledges with a proud smile. 'What gave me away? My mother? I wonder who put the idea in her head of getting the best London detective onto me...'

 _He's doing it wrong._ Chandler should be shying away from Sherlock Holmes, not boasting right at him. He's young and foolish, enough to believe he can walk out of here scot-free.

'Actually, you're behind on the news. Even your mum knows that doctor Watson here is the best London detective.'

 _Sherlock!_

Anyway, Chandler looks confused by that remark, and the aim of his gun drops fractionally. _Keep going, Sherlock._

'Yes, the press seems to have caught up with me being a fraud... again.' He rolls his eyes in feigned annoyance.

I dry swallow. _Don't even go there, Sherlock._ It brings echoes of post-Reichenbach lies and St Bart's rooftop.

I focus, with all my might, on the differences to this weekend's events. No criminal mastermind behind it, no real spite against Sherlock (as I'm professed the real hero), and – _most of all_ – Sherlock keeps at my side, _he's not leaving._

Chandler mumbles something back, as if having lured the wrong detective is an affront to his criminal ego. In his young age, he's trying to affirm himself by confronting the best natural enemy he could have. 'But you... you followed the leads I planted to get you here, Holmes!'

Sherlock shrugs, probably just to keep him incensed. 'It was actually your mum that gave you away, Chandler. She was worried you'd catch pneumonia in this damp riverside factory.'

'She... she doesn't know about this place! I haven't come here for years!' he stutters. Sherlock narrows his greyish eyes.

'But it was your friends hangout, before age caught up with you all and you got estranged. It was the easy solution, really. John figured it out', he adds, as if proving it was easy.

'You... you can't prove I did something wrong, Holmes!' he changes his tactics towards self-defence.

Sherlock sighs, bored. Probably again regretting that initial Seven for this case.

'Explosives. I can smell the nitrates in the air. You've only just started building a bomb. You've finally brought the trigger, or maybe you've got cold feet and it's a better timer.'

Chandler shakes his head. 'Why would I want to blow up this dump?'

At the mentions of explosives I have started walking around the room, scanning it. Sherlock carries on: 'Because of that basement you've got full of dead bodies, downstairs. Our mama's boy Chandler is one of London's most prolific serial killer to have evaded Scotland Yard, John. No one has ever come close to him... until now. Until John Watson.' Sherlock smiles softly my way.

Suddenly the younger man tackles me, lifting me off my feet by the sheer force of impact, and I can't hold on to my position or keep upright anymore. We dive off, with me going backwards, and the exact moment I recall I was standing by the factory's floor to ceiling window is the same moment my back hits the vertical glass. Sherlock shouts out my name desperately, but I'm already free-falling through a shower of glass shards into the dead of the night and brisk cold air. The criminal is parting from me, preparing himself for the inevitable dive in the cold Thames waters below. I use that newfound distance for a desperate last attempt at rolling around, but there is no time left, and I hit the hard water surface with my back. The gelid waters envelop me at once, painfully cramping my shoulders and back, turning my heart rate erratic, making my upwards thrust movements sluggish and detached.

I fight to swim back to the surface, but I don't know which way is up anymore.

In my mad fight with a watery death I think I get a fleeting glance of the other man who has fallen alongside me to the river, and his face is ashen and his eyes are vacant with death. The eerie vision of Chandler's fate undoes me and I frantically fight to swim, to back away, to float to the surface; a confusing array of desperate decisions that instead drags me deeper down in the Thames' murky, merciless waters.

I'm losing my strengths, all air depleted, bright spots forming in my vision as I struggle to keep conscious – _and fight_ – but I'll keep going only for as long as I can keep the fight in me...

A strong grasp clutches at my shoulder and yanks me back. In the aquatic suspension I'm dragged backwards like a ragdoll, numbed arms and legs flailing helplessly after me, independent of any conscious effort I make. As I'm losing it altogether, finally I reach the surface and in a coarse desperate gasp I gratefully take in that oxygen I'm so desperate for. And repeat with another gasp, often. Hardly taking notice of someone who has wrapped a strong arm around my chest and is towing me to the margin with powerful swimming strokes.

'That's it, now. Steady.' It's Sherlock scared voice as I take a shaking hand over the arm that keeps around me.

'How... did you... get here?' I choke out the word in a broken voice.

'I jumped too, John, obvious', he tells me. But not dismissing the useless conversation just yet. He clings to my words as a sign that I'm alive.

Sherlock has got hold of the margin and the first police officers at the scene are trying to grab us and pulling us up roughly.

I suspect somewhere behind a cctv camera Mycroft alerted them, timely.

'You jumped off a building... for me... again?' I ask him, full of admiration.

'Well, you keep getting your life at risk, John', he admits so, humouredly. 'But not a rooftop this time', he adds meaningfully.

Thankfully I didn't have to watch it unfold in any case. _Watching my selfless heroic friend will drive me mad one day._

'Just drop it, John', he snarls suddenly.

'What is it? Why do you keep telling me that?' I ask as he's being hoisted up first. Meanwhile I'm being kept afloat by the strong grip of a few police officers at the margin.

'You keep thinking there will be a day I won't risk my life to save you, John Watson', he snaps indignantly. 'Despite all of my evidence otherwise.'

'I'm sorry', I say, meaning it. 'It's just that ordinary people don't do this for one another.'

He seems to understand. 'You would, and you do, all the time. Ordinary people are just overrated.'

I keep quiet as I'm being pulled up to the margin myself.

We're all of a sudden on solid ground and aware we're not exactly alone. There's a small multitude of police officers, and some paramedics trying to assess us and wrapping blankets around our shivering frames. And behind them, there's a shocked, desperate, noisy crowd snapping photographs of us and trying to understand what – the hell – they've just witnessed.

I smile at my mad best friend. 'Guess you'll be the h-hero of this one, Sherlock', I tell him, as I clutch to the blanket in hope of warming up.

'I don't c-care.'

'Of course you c-care.'

'I c-care you're here, John.'

 _Oh. Well, when you put it that way..._ Sherlock keeps sight of what is really important. Never dazzled by his deserved fame.

I let my head drop on his shoulder, exhausted. I know that this is a picture that will make headlines in the press, and internet memes for years to come, but I too couldn't care less. The innocent trust conveyed by my simple gesture is true enough to the feeling of this shared moment. After all, you only live once. _Unless you're the great Sherlock Holmes._

My friend puts his arm around my neck, keeping me close, as the photographic flashes of white light keep bringing light to the dark night.

 _ **.**_

Faithful to his given word as to his side of the bargain, but not necessarily amenable, I drag Sherlock along with me to the surgery, my usual place of work.

I had to get special clearance to bring Sherlock alongside me to work today, and I suspect the secret influence of Mycroft Holmes assured the necessary paperwork got approved and signed so fast.

Collar popped up on his long wool coat, arrogance dialed up to the maximum in his features, and an almost childish, indignant stomping on his footsteps, I bring the great Sherlock Holmes with me to work.

Before I can log in at the reception, Sherlock is already doing a sweep observation of the patients in the waiting room. They too seem to be keen on looking him up, recognising him. _Things are back to normal._

That's when Sherlock chooses to snap out loud: 'Common cold, ingrown toenail, pregnancy scare, laryngitis, sprained ankle, sprained knee, beginning of pneumonia, and a seafood allergy. There, John, that's your job done for the day. Can we go now?'

My face drains white. 'Their ailments are supposed to be confidential, Sherlock!' I hiss, after his well-placed voice carried through the whole waiting room. _Figures my friend would try to spoil it for me, when my turn came round!_

He shrugs. 'I didn't say who had what, John. Apart from the seafood allergy guy that is easy to guess – but he's going to anaphylactic shock soon so everyone will know who he is when the ambulance arrives, people always look – everyone else's diagnose is above their level of knowledge, or they wouldn't come here for a doctor, they wouldn't need one and they wouldn't be taking up your time.'

Funny, no one wants to come up to the famous detective anymore.

I'm looking at a very frightened man in the waiting room. _Damn, of course Sherlock would get his diagnosis faultlessly right._ I nod to the receptionists, that hasten to set the procedures in motion.

'Can we go now?' Sherlock asks again; worst than before, now he's doing a sad puppy face at me.

I sigh, in search of hidden strengths. In that very moment the waiting room patients turn hysterical, arguing over who has pneumonia and should be seen first and who shouldn't be there for a common cold.

Sherlock smiles at me, victoriously.

'You do realise, Sherlock, that they are not all _my_ patients? That more will be coming in to see me?'

His smile drops and he looks impatient again. I continue: 'And that I'll need to assure all this lot that they will be okay despite the shocking speed-diagnosising they've just got from you? And log each patient's complaints, and prescribe the medication they need?'

'Even for the one with the common cold?' he asks, baffled.

'Yes, even for him.'

Sherlock tilts his head to the side, pensive. It's the least I could ask of my impulsive friend so I decide to liberate him from our deal.

'You understand now. So... I'll see you back at Baker Street?'

Sherlock sighs. 'You don't get rid of me that easily, John. The way I see it, you need someone who can type with more than two fingers to get you through the day faster. I can do that, while you save their lives.'

I ignore the jibe and smile at Sherlock's offhanded compliment about saving lives. _Yeah, we do that all the time._

I accept his once-off help. Sherlock has this amazing ability to make everyday life seem easier.

 _ **.**_


	13. Chapter 13

_**(If you haven't seen episode 1, don't read the A/N, be warned)**_

* * *

 _A/N: It's almost physically painful for me not to write. It's been such a release for me. So, it's now after the first episode and I'm not sure "I survived my heroes" (which was my secret condition to keep this up). I want to put words to paper all the same. I want to obliterate John's OOCness. Only I don't set the characters, so I must have been the one to veer off in the first place._

 _Of course I go for option A on the texting debacle – nothing happened – for my John. But if I can understand the bus thing (and notice the humour when John won't take the underground after that time when he learned that bombs have off switches), it's the answering on the married bed thing that really makes me angry. I mean, I get the process, the excitement born of the risk of getting caught. After Baby arrives they are constantly playing it safe. They don't take Baby on a case, and the cases are simple. When Sherlock meets the busts thief he doesn't take John, keeping Baby's dad safe. John is lashing out, because he loves his ordinary life – he looks so grateful when he smiles – but something deep in him is a storm brewing. I choose (yes, at least for now there is a choice available) to believe an affair didn't materialize because of John's high sense of right and wrong – that Sherlock Holmes so easily identified in him from the start – has prevailed, scorched but intact. I still want to have some cross words with John, though._

 _And (hang on!) are you trying to persuade me that not Mary, Sherlock or Mycroft (the cctv spying king) wouldn't have seen signs of an affair on John?_

 _The writers have inched this way – from "so what if he's right? he's always right, it's boring" from Sherlock, to "you make it really hard, being so perfect" from Mary – I guess they felt they were about to punish a holy character with a huge loss and it couldn't end well._

 _(Sigh.) So far they've been doing the 'House MD' resolution. Yes, I call it out, why not? It's been the logical way. I didn't go there because I wanted a sanitary, clean, merciful ending for Mary. I wanted a witness protection plan and the occasional contact. My bad. I have enough dark clouds in my own life, I wanted to control happy endings in the stories._

 _So I guess this contradicts some generalist references I planted on my stories before. I tried not to be specific, but those contradictions will be there. Sorry about that as well._

 _So what is this, other than a long rambling A/N, or me feeling like it's been implied that trying to be good is a fault, because it's boring, inaccessible, or predictable?_

 _It's the start of another multi-chapter piece – also generic in time, and boring and safe or whatever I do to my John usually. It's small for now, but it's what I had up my sleeve._

 _I'm not dead sure I survived my heroes after all. -csf_

* * *

 _2nd A/N: Murders galore, for plot's sake. Sorry it's small, I'm still reeling. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_ _ **sulfur .**_

The strongest memory I hold of tonight's crime scene is the nauseating stench.

The smell of rot and decay turned the stomachs of even the most experienced officers of Scotland Yard. DI Lestrade looked oddly grey in his pale mournful face as he busied himself bossing around everyone more energetically than usual, Anderson had to rush out of the scene three times before being able to finish his forensic collections, Sally's cool-headed approach wasn't enough to endure the scene and after the first minutes back at perimeter duty there was still a gaunt look to her that will not leave her for days to come.

Even Sherlock, usually quite at home with the gore and abject meaningless destruction of the worst crime scenes, seemed uncharacteristically subdued tonight.

As for myself, I succumbed to an intense, desperate feeling of déjà-vu. I've been at war, I've seen the limits of human endurance. I've seen the manmade limitless power of destruction. So there, at that crime scene, I felt I knew too well this horrible feeling of despair and silent agony that once again came flooding back.

 _It's like riding a bicycle, they say._

And I hated myself for enduring it so well, like an old companion revisiting.

As I came back to London I had intimately vowed never to be subjected to this traumatic influence again. Not that this is the worst I've seen. No, quite unimaginative, really. A Jack the Ripper's handiwork mock, and the unpleasant smell of sulfur covering the powerful stench of rot. The two combined got to me in the end, after I've done my part. I'm sure it was the stench, more than the gore spread about with an artistic flair like on a stage.

At least, that's what I've told myself, afterwards. Just a physiological reaction because I'm not used to this; not a coward's reaction to the dramatization of the sad ending to a human life. That's what I kept repeating to myself, as I retched several times behind some garbage bins at the end of that dirty alley, where there was too much biohazard evidence to collect anyway, shaky hands splayed open and pressed against the dusty greyish bricks on the wall. The wall's rough surface scratching my palms as I mindlessly clawed the clay being a welcome reminder of this side of the timeline.

Sherlock was the one noticing I was gone. He was the one who found me, opting to silently stand at my side until I was quite finished, and then actually insisting I took a break. It was the first time he eased my role of assistant, medical examiner, blogger, or whatever roles I comprise while visiting crime scenes at his side.

As he supported me out of the alley's horrors, I could have sworn we were supporting each other. He too was affected by the severe degree of violence and the lackluster of brilliance, but kept it together in favour of solving the puzzle.

Greg followed us soon, after setting up a new rotation scheme for the unlucky Yarders at the scene.

'John, how are you doing, mate?' he asked me, directing his energies to my state, as if in worrying for me he could ease the sensorial overload we left behind.

Sherlock glanced at him, and for once he didn't snap something arrogant at our friend's exit from the epicentre of the crime scene. Any other time I'm sure I'd hear Sherlock's reminder that the detective inspector cannot pick up on the finer details of the crime scene from twenty feet away.

'Fine, I'm fine', I mutter as I dry-swallow that sulfur-drenched air that got lodged on my throat, drawing strengths from my friends vigil over this former soldier. Don't want to explain myself and yet I must try to erase that impression of weakness they witnessed in me. I therefore force a strong smile and remind them who they are dealing with: 'Not my first time after all, in this type of scenery.'

Greg takes a couple of seconds to let the understanding pour into his mind, and by then his face blanches white entirely. In his defence, he knows better than to do the decent thing of asking me if I shouldn't go away, get out of the premises entirely. He seems to know instinctively that I need to see this through, to put it to rest, and that can only happen when we catch this sick bastard.

Sherlock has a sudden intake of breath and tilts his head slightly back, as he does when he comes to a sudden decision, not necessarily a grateful one. He too will see this through, and allow me at his side. _For me and my demons, if nothing else._

That's his perk, I think. He wants to know how does this relate to my almost untold past. The amount of gore in a crime scene isn't a direct proportion of Sherlock's interest in a case, it really isn't. Sherlock has found in me a different payoff for a crude overkill case.

As one, Sherlock and I look at the detective inspector, daring him to declare his side. He withstands our strong stances with the ease of repeated partnerships. _He too will see this through, by our side._

We will work together to catch this fiend.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: I'm still confused._

 _Meanwhile, here's another portion of the story started briefly on the last one. Part two, continuing to unravel the case._

 _As always; I'm still not British or a writer. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

DI Greg Lestrade found his way back to Baker Street with us. Perhaps taking a break from duty, or temporarily classifying Sherlock Holmes as an expert to visit as he's often done in other cases, or even naming me as one of his unofficial consultants (who he seems to have found the need to monitor for a while). I'm not sure what, but something impressed Greg over how I was doing at his crime scene. Usually he'd leave it to the consulting detective with little tact to keep me under a watchful eye, as he knows that between Sherlock and me there's a good level of unspoken understanding. This time, even though Sherlock is present, and quite engaged as is not often the case, Greg keeps insisting on staying too and that I shouldn't be left alone right now.

I'm under constant well-meant surveillance; one that I honestly feel is quite needless. _I'm fine._ There's nothing wrong with me, and I wish they'd stop watching me sideways (that's Greg) or monitoring my breathing rate (that's Sherlock), offering me tea (that's Greg, even though he's a guest at Baker Street) or watching my left hand tremor like a hawk (that's Sherlock, and he's not even trying to be inconspicuous about it).

'Any new leads from the crime scene, Greg?' I ask out loud, wanting to force the two detectives back to work, and out of my case.

'You're sure you're up to it, John?' the DI hesitates.

I clear my throat awkwardly and redirect: 'The constant scrutiny is really more disturbing than reassuring, mate. All I did was to react to the crime scene and I wasn't exactly the only one, by the way. Anderson...'

'He's just a technician, give him a break, John.'

'And I'm just a doctor', I try to convince them.'

'Hardly. I know you better than that, mate.' Greg sets me straight at once with a pointed look.

I flex my left hand to release the built-up tension. 'Perhaps I ate something that didn't agree with me', I give him a doctor's plausible explanation.

Greg carries his gaze over to Sherlock, who – I notice now – has been far too quiet. They share some quick understanding that escapes me and soon Greg is back on track, pulling out of his coat's pocket an evidence bag to show the consulting expert and me. It's finely lined at its walls with the same yellow powder that settles in larger amounts at the bottom.

'I'm sure', DI Lestrade carries on to the other detective, 'you won't need me to tell you this, but that powder at the crime scene was identified as sulfur.'

'We could smell it', Sherlock agrees, transfixed by the sample nevertheless. 'Rotten eggs smell.'

'Pungent too.'

I notice: 'It had no good reason to be spread over the crime scene, though. Why would the murderer do that? Did he want to speed up the detection of his homicidal handiwork?'

'And where did he get it from?' Greg adds, pointing at the evidence bag. 'He had quite a huge stink bomb up that alley, John.'

'It must be a message.'

'Or a signature', Greg comments, hopefully, as he fleetingly eyes Sherlock, wondering if our friend is solving the horrible case already.

Sherlock comments through a frustrated facial spasm: 'The lead is huge, but not enough at all. It's dangerous to infer on insufficient data.'

'Yeah, well...' the inspector proceeds, not too discouraged, his full trust still with Sherlock Holmes, 'there's the autopsy coming up and the forensic guys at the lab are running a deep analysis on that sulfur, to see if they can trace it. Some purifying plant, or some particular composition that tells them where it got extracted from.'

'And about the woman, the victim?' It's my turn to ask.

'Young woman, no address, no identification with her. From the state of her hair and clothes she may have been living on the streets for a while now. We're investigating.'

I shake my head slowly; what a tragic waste.

'Think it's a message?' I ask as it crosses my mind. 'You know, biblical fury, sulfur, fire and brimstone, that sort of thing. The destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. I mean, if she resorted to earning a living at any cost...'

Greg digs his hands in his pockets. 'Vigilante type gone overboard? Frustrated client feeling humiliated?' he catalogues the possibilities for the murderer's motives. Again I notice the dark sunken patches under Greg's eyes. 'I'll keep that in mind, John... How about you, Sherlock? Any words of wisdom from you?'

He shrugs, before reciting by heart: 'Sulfur. Atomic number is 16. Relative atomic mass is 32. Period 3, group 16 of the periodic table. Melting point of 115ᵒC and boiling point at 444ᵒC. Specific heat capacity of—'

'Fine, fine!' Greg cuts him off. 'Never mind I asked. Keep it to yourself. What did you do? Memorise the entire periodic table of elements?'

Sherlock's light blue eyes grow wider. 'Yes. When I was seven years old. Didn't everyone?'

I snigger inwardly at Greg's shocked look.

'No, some of us played ball', the police inspector still defends.

'Ugh, predictable', Sherlock mumbles with an eye roll.

I just look on over their interaction, a soft smile finally returning to my lips.

 _ **.**_

Hours passed since our visit to the crime scene. My friend, Sherlock Holmes, has been trying to watch over me. As I forced myself to a deliberately scalding water shower to get the lingering stench off me I had left Sherlock in the living room, redecorating the wall above the sofa. Let's just say there was a lot of reds and browns in the coloured photographs of the crime scene. I hadn't pointed out how far more gruesome that was than the usual mind maps he created, other than ask if he could keep Mrs H from coming upstairs for the duration of the case.

'And, anyway', I had even asked, 'you have an eidetic memory, you remember every single detail of everything. Why on earth would you need a visual aid?'

He grumped something unintelligible that included my name, and I wondered if in some part of his mind he believed that display to be for my benefit as well. To help me solve the case alongside him.

It might have been a gruesome wall display, but it brought a small tired smile to my face.

Whichever the case, when I came out of the bathroom with my hair still dripping lukewarm water droplets in my wake, Mrs H was leaving 221B. I found out that tea had been made and laid out with scones on the kitchen table and that those horrible pictures had indeed vanished from the living room wall.

Too bad I couldn't erase those images just as easily from within me. Even with a perfectly average memory I felt that particular crime scene had nestled somewhere deep inside me.

As I involuntarily shuddered, Sherlock's eyes were again stuck on me. He's been trying to understand me. Sometimes, in the space of these two or three hours, I've suspected Sherlock to be putting more effort on figuring me out than on finding the horrific killer. It doesn't help that I've been – according to Sherlock's own words – brooding around the flat for the first part of that time. I could just as easily say that he was stalking me. Whenever my mind connects the invisible threads of consciousness that link London to a foregone past, and I space out for a moment or two, there's always Sherlock around. He keeps watch over me, silent, dutiful. I fancy he's taken upon himself the role of a guardian, assuring I always return to the present moment, that I won't waste a single extra moment in my personal hell that I could instead be devoting to London and Sherlock. Assuring himself that the John Watson he knows always returns from the sand-filled landscapes of his past.

But when Sherlock is not looking, when he's not around in the immediate vicinity, on those rare occasions – rarer now he's realised I've been searching for my own solitude in hope of making sense of it all – I allow myself to revisit my chaotic memories, desperately trying to make sense of them. _Why did I have such a reaction at the crime scene?_

Unbeknown to Sherlock, I am intellectually aware that my past can't hurt me anymore. Only tragic echoes carve their lasting impressions on my psyche now. To Sherlock their solution is easy; I should lock them deep down in some mind palace dungeon and keep them there. It's certainly a daring call to bring them back, line them up like sitting ducks and make sense of them. It brings back the vortex of hell that once enveloped me so tightly that I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't scream for dear life. Why pull my triggers out of the shadows now? Why revive them, impress them with vivid life?

I press my eyes shut tight, my breathing hitching momentarily. This is an invisible battle I must win, fought within the very confines of my core.

I can't be its prisoner anymore. I need to break free from the heavy burdens I carry.

This is London, I've got Sherlock and lots of friends, 221B's living room is safe ground. Perhaps it's time I allow myself to overcome my bottled-up fears. It's time I come to grips with a taunting past. Sherlock has gone for a shower himself, under my strict medical coercion, and it's only me now, filling the crystalline silence of 221B.

A small whimper, like that of a little lost puppy, is released from me, unexpectedly, as I ponder the process I'm starting.

A gelid shiver runs down my spine. Even if I'm standing strong at Baker Street, by the lit fireplace, warm and safe. It feels like a surge of icy water drowning me from the inside. I hunch on myself instinctively. What have I done? Which horrors have I set free? Why have I come in search of my demons? They were lined up, ready to jump on me. _They knew I'd come back to them, I always do. Maybe this is who I'll always be, lord knows I deserve this._ I take the deepest breath I have the courage to muster through my pain-filled tight ribcage, and I press my eyes shut firmly surrendering to the pitch black darkness that fuses with my incoming migraine. _I'm on my own descent into hell._

The noises are the first to assault my senses. Couldn't tell why the noises are always the first sensorial impressions on me. I just about jump off my skin as the harsh loud detonations kick the ground in earth-shattering explosions. Their trepidation shaking me to the core. I lose the last notions of a welcoming safe ground in Baker Street. My mind completes the journey. Back to the war, to my memories of hell. For now I secure some detachment from this reality, I hold on to the knowledge that this is only a potent triggered set of sensorial-based memories. _I want to know where I'm coming to. I want to know why this day, this desperate cluster of traumatic memories, bundled up together._ _What have I been repressing effectively until now?_

Sand. Hot sand all over. Sand on the hills, sand on the humble houses with bare walls that are marred with bullet holes, sand on the dirty mattresses on the floor and on the bare topped tables. I catch glimpses of it though the open doors. Sand too is reflected back on the too old looks of boys forced into manhood too early, sand on the veils of unblinking women holding on desperately to their sons and daughters as they automatically fear the worst upon hearing incoming footsteps. Our footsteps, in the wake of enemy footsteps, sounding just like ours; boots' thudding swallowed by the sand that comprises the ground.

I'm patrolling, just that. Why would I keep a memory of such an ordinary day?

 _It's not enough._ I suspect I'm chickening out of my own decision. With a headshake I desperately shut my eyes tighter in the present time, closing myself off to the safe haven of Baker Street completely. I dig my nails into the palms of my hands, till they're tingling and bleeding, till the pain washes over me, grounding me, lowering me deeper, sinking me into my hell.

 _I want to dive in headfirst, I want to master and control this. I want to take reigns of the dark shadows and – once and for all – I want to own them, do with them what I will._

Another shiver runs down my back. This time it mingles with the sweat rolling down, energised by my shaking frame. For one fleeting moment I wonder if I'm playing with fire, if I'll get burnt. What if I can't pull back, what if I get lost in the horrors I keep stashed away in my damaged mind?

I open my eyes wide, an instant coward, trying to get one last glimpse of 221B, one last proof that I'm that strong, that I can pull through.

All is bright sunlight around me, amazing me. The sunlight is undeterred over the low constructions of basic houses, and is multiplying in kaleidoscopic myriads of reflexes on the billions of tiny grains of sand. Their combined efforts blind me momentarily and, dazzled, I push the palms of my hands over my eyelids, trying to hide from the all-seeing light that the sand carries over.

 _I've lost Baker Street._

 _I'm on a roll now._

The detonations had eased somewhat as the first visual hallucinations overlapped reality. Even my muddled up mind can't handle it all at once. Now they return, slow and sure, rumbling as loud as my heartbeats as my heart feels like it's about to jump out of my chest.

I watch the woman from earlier, protectively embracing a son and a daughter, fiercely claiming them as her own primal property.

"It's okay... Friend... British doctor..." I say, in my own language. These tortured people have been deceived so many times they regard my attempts at Farsi or Dari as a sign of deceit. I know I must start slow, unthreatening. English first as I establish who I am. Their native language (as little as I know of it) later, as they begin to trust me.

"I'm a British doctor", I repeat, stopping by that smudged-walled house with an open door. Their shaking figures are trembling in a tight collective embrace, huddled together.

I take a tentative step forward and the smell hits me like a ton of bricks. The smell of despair and human decay and the hot stench of spilled blood.

 _Sulfur._

The small family scoots together further inwards in their tight unit, like I'm the enemy.

I try to make sense of what is going on. Is someone hurt in there? If one of the children was hurt, no matter the setting or the distant fire of combat, the mother would be actively tending to the child. Not that, then. The smell of blood intensifies, sickening, as I take another step forward. "Doctor", I repeat, in Dari this time. Still no sign of recognition in their faces. Just a basal fear impressed in them. "I'm John", I add, more personally, despite the gun and the uniform. In the back of my mind I know my unit is somewhat at a distance. "My name is John."

I cross the threshold defiantly and glance at the hidden, darkened areas of the house. It's there I find my answer, under the petrified scrutiny of the family who has lost all remnants of innocence in this war-ridden land.

 _Somewhere between two distant realities I fall on my knees, weak and trembling. My body is being rocked by shudders, powerful and fast-paced. I cling on to my gun, but I wouldn't know how to use it; not here, not now, where there's no humanity left._

 _I finally allow myself to collapse entirely on the dirty sand in a heap of hyperventilated sobs. I clutch my fingers on the ground and my fingertips weave through the fibres of the rug on the floor._

 _I can't go back. I can't stay put._

'John, I need you to breathe slower... John, can you hear me?'

I raise tired eyebrows at the familiar voice with the strange request. Sherlock doesn't belong in this world. Sherlock mustn't get destroyed like I've been.

Must close my eyes tighter. Must focus on getting Sherlock out of my flashback. _Keep him safe._

'No, focus on me! Just focus on me. I'll make everything okay again, if you focus on me, John.'

 _Cocky as ever. Sherlock can't fix me._ I'm far too damaged already. Have been, since before I met him. Sherlock never stood a chance to win my battles.

'You're wrong, John. You're not defeated', he dares to read my stance. 'You're John Watson, a survivor. It makes you incredibly special. It might feel like a burden but... it's what brought you to me. I mean, to London. To the life you love and you have now. You're safe now, John, I promise you that.'

His deep soft voice is grounding me. Slowly it dissolves the sand and brings back the cluttered, tea scented 221B. _I didn't go deep enough to lose myself._

'Sh-Sherlock?' I ask, quizzically, to the man on his knees, leaning towards me as he tries not to overcrowd a PTSD prone soldier having a vivid flashback on his rug. My voice comes across as overly frail, vulnerable, confused. I hear it sound around me, detached from me, as if I still don't fully control it. Sherlock smiles nonetheless, a true, soft and caring smile. Rare and welcoming.

'That's it, John. Focus on me now.'

Is it me, or does he sound relieved?

I raise myself partially, on an unsteady elbow. 'I found out, Sherlock.'

'What?' he ponders in a whisper, never doubting the sense or importance of my immediate words after the earlier delusions.

'You know when you go to your mind palace...' I gulp on a scratched throat and hoarse voice to carry on, 'you know, to look for things you stashed away?' He nods, looking uncertain himself. 'It's sort of what I did', I try to explain with a stoic smile. Deep inside I hope he can see the usefulness of the broken soldier, shaking in front of him. 'I thought it might help solve the case', I add, as I see his expression falter, just for a second, as if it had caused him actual physical pain. Immediately the genius cold mask returns, intensified, and facing his cold stance I finish, lamely: 'It didn't help as much as I hoped for... Maybe at all', I confess as I feel a wave of exhaustion flooring me.

'That was insanely idiotic and uselessly altruistic', he hisses under his breath; probably keeping in mind my onsetting migraine.

I nod cautiously, and glance towards the long sofa. 'I think I need a lie down now, if you don't mind. You can berate me later, I look forward to it. Right now... it's been a long journey and I need a rest.'

He nods, as if he wholly agrees, and helps me to the sofa, mindful of my cramped muscles and raging headache.

'Please', I start as I close my eyes, barely keeping control of the last explosions and remnants of the war, 'don't worry about me.'

He huffs, indignant, as he could barely contain himself from pointing out my stupidity or something. But he won't let his anger blind him of the bigger picture of our friendship, as I hear him softly reach for his violin and then passionately start playing the soothing hues of one of my favourite pieces, one that often I've woken up to in the middle of the night, during my nightmares. Sherlock's healing piece is as heartfelt as when I'm a victim of my past memories and not its conjurer, and I smile softly, for this is what true friendship and acceptance feels like. My so-called sociopathic friend is the best friend I could possibly have had the fortune of finding.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: I know; I've been gone long. And this is possibly a bit unfocussed, sorry. -csf_

* * *

 _ **. helium**_ _ **.**_

Sherlock let me sleep late, right through this discovery of a new crime scene. However, in a deeply generous care, he'd not deprive me from accessing it, were that to be my choice. Another gruesome set up crime scene, maximised to create an extreme impact of devastation and despairing on the attending officers. Sherlock and I knew, without shadow of a doubt, that we were captive audience, being baited along the murderous path of a madman in search of appreciation. The dramatic theatricality of the first crime scene felt too staged to have been an isolated masterpiece. Looking back, I think we knew he'd keep returning to his murdering hobby until he had finalised one true, perfect masterpiece. It made my stomach turn just to contemplate that this madman could be enjoying himself as he briefly escaped the confinements of his regular, possibly boring life, to devastate others' own lives.

Morning would bring us a brand new location, full of the trademarks of the first, confirming the Scotland Yard and Sherlock Holmes weren't fast enough to catch this man.

Somewhere deep inside me I wondered if I was somewhat to blame, having unwillingly sidetracked Sherlock's attention onto me. But I wouldn't allow myself to dwell on that. I wasn't the killer, nor was I a clog in the premeditated machinery. I was a well-meaning but mistimed product of chance.

This new crime scene hadn't been softened by the killer's previous endeavours from the day before. It'd come to Scotland Yard's attention with a macabre twist that would roll many more stomachs than just this old doctor's one.

The innocence of a child's play area ruined by the chaotic evil of another premeditated, violent murder.

A children's indoor play gym, the setting of giggly laughter and healthy tag games, now forever corrupted off its intended spirit. As an enhanced detail to the modus operandi, the butchered pieces of the unfortunate victim were used as props, hanging from the end of balloons' strings. Destruction all around us, enhanced in order to literally surround us, hardly a place left to ease the eyes of the distressing images being burned into our minds by a devious and artistic murderer.

Sherlock didn't hide one single detail from me. In fact, he narrated every known fact from the source on his phone – I suspect it was Greg Lestrade – with the emotionless voice of a conscientious scientist or an undertaker. He wanted to give me full range of choice, and I appreciated that honest recount, both in just warning and carrying the full disclosure I would require in order to accompany my friend, to whichever degree I chose to deepen our collaboration. Whether I needed to know tea would be needed upon the great detective's arrival at the refuge of Baker Street, to sooth him from the more horrific details of the crime, or for whenever I gulped drily swallowing my pride as I could no longer adjourn a small escape break from my loyal place by Sherlock's side, feeling overwhelmed.

In that unfaltering trust that I was the man to make the choice as to my own involvement in Sherlock's case, no matter my sad spectacle Sherlock had been made aware of, the detective was giving me back some of that control I had lost in my debacle at the first crime scene.

 _Sherlock kept his faith in me, unshaken._

I was deeply grateful for that.

'I'm going too, Sherlock.'

He hesitated, softhearted, none the less.

'John, I... There's some research that needs to be done in order to–'

'Use your phone, then. You always do', I stood my ground, firmly.

He searched for the unspoken words between us with his stormy eyes boring into mine. Finally, with only the slightest hint of a nod, he stood down.

'You will come then', he searched one last time for verbal commitment.

I smirked. 'Thought you hated repetition, Sherlock. Of course I'm going. Nothing's changed.'

He smiled, just that, to allow me to know he appreciated the gift of my company in this horrible case.

And I truly appreciated his with the same fervency.

 _ **.**_

Fresh air at the parking lot of the police taped off play area was a welcomed relief. As the three of us came out, some forensic assistants standing outside smoking took a look at Sherlock, and reading in him the imminent threat, hurried to finish and return back inside. Seeking refuge from the solace demanding consulting detective inside the horrible crime scene.

Greg Lestrade, looking more haunted than yesterday, as if he had done a late night with little to no results to show for, takes no time to request Sherlock's help.

'Anything you can give us, Sherlock?' Greg snaps directly.

The consulting detective doesn't get caught off guard for a second. Reasonable, he starts noticing: 'Helium. Group 18, period 1 of the periodic table, atomic number is 2, gaseous state at room temperature, relative atomic mass of–'

DI Lestrade's exhaustion makes him bite back: 'Right, heard _that_ before, Sherlock. It's right up your street with the chemistry ties, innit? But what are the odds this killer is a periodic table fanatic? Not every case has the sky as the limit! Some cases are just what they appear to be. Crude and pointless. Hell, I've seen my fair share of crimes that have no upside, no silver lining, no intelligent evil minds behind it. Does it never get to you?' Greg's looking intensely at our friend, blinded by his impassible mask of rationality. _I know better._

I try to lighten the mood, perhaps lamely: 'Well, it really does spell SH, his initials, Greg. Sherlock notices everything. How could he not know his initials on the periodic table?'

Sherlock Holmes, who insists I have a non-linear train of thought that defies all realms of logic "in an utterly fascinating way", is suddenly looking at me up close, very intrigued. 'Actually, John, the chemical symbol for helium is "He". "H" is hydrogen as you should know. If it spells something it's"SHe", although I grant you that the use of hydrogen instead of helium could have turned this place into a massive explosion site.'

Greg picked up on it immediately: 'Are you serious? Are you saying it could be a message, that this sick bastard is planting clues about a particular woman?'

'Or even signing it', Sherlock adds carelessly. 'It's not a good principle to infer without sufficient data, Greg.' And he admonishes me with a frown, as if I am the responsible one for a police investigation going astray.

'Then why did you bring the whole chemistry thing up?' Greg's on his last straw.

'I hate imprecise science facts', the younger detective snaps and hauntingly moves away. I have to lower my head and bury a smile in my hand. We can't all have the periodic table memorised from seven years old, after all.

 _ **.**_

'You are upset', I verbalise towards my self-imposed mute friend, brooding by his leather and steel armchair, his hands steepled together by his chin. Tall and lean, he's an elegant fluid shape that could easily be mistaken as watching his own reflection in the mirror he's facing by sheer narcissism. I know by the slightly haunted look on his features that Sherlock is focusing on the case, as he mentally reviews its most infinite and minute details in his mind's eye.

I take up a tired seat by his side, quietly sinking into the Union Jack pillow that is often found on my armchair. _Homeliness._ At a moment when I could find myself adrift, I seem to appreciate this safe environment so much more.

Sherlock's eyes divert fractionally, shifting his gaze towards his friend's angled reflection, overall keeping himself immobile. One could miss such a minute shift, but I know better; with Sherlock the most important and genuine statements are often found in the details.

There lies a constant care and protection that I'm not used to, as a life long soldier. It's usually up to me to be the steady one, and attentive to others' needs, sometimes to steer Sherlock back to reality if he gets lost on that big mind of his. That he's returning it now is an undeniable proof of care over a damaged soldier with–

'Stop it!'

I just about jump off my seat and look back at my ominous friend's face. Somehow I had let my gaze wander away and down to the floor, possibly looking as defeated as I feel.

'What?' I ask, daftly.

'Just drop it, John', he hisses, impatient, fiery eyes stuck on me.

I tense and recoil instinctively. 'Don't know what you are on about, Sherlock.'

He loses whatever patience he's managed to hold onto. 'Ever since your mind wandering exercise of yesterday you have been subdued and your internal dialogue has been leaning indulgently towards self-hatred. You feel humiliated and exposed, two idiotic feelings that have been exacerbated by the very secrecy you want to enshrine the past events in. Well, you can't have secrecy of your flashback, or otherwise pretend nothing has happened. Not to me as a witness, and not to the world. Your face is too honest and your reaction is found embedded in those deep lines of your face, the sunken patches under your eyes and in the very folds of your creased shirt.'

'My shirt?' I ask, surprised, as I check it, completely forgetting to deny it all. _It's Sherlock, anyway, I'd never have won._

'You have crossed your arms in front of you very frequently. That's guarding behaviour, by the way. Prolonged exposure to my brother Mycroft usually creates a similar creases pattern.'

'And how do you know I haven't spoken with your brother today? He could have phoned me', I take my chance. Sherlock infuriatingly smiles, as if he pitied my effort, but enjoyed watching the fight arising in me.

'You've been under my watch at all times, John. You couldn't so much as have received a text without my knowledge.'

I look away, before I realise it's an easy tell.

'I'll be fine, Sherlock', I promise, red-faced. 'I just need time.' I look down again, as if it was the only safe place to focus on.

'I know that', he says, in a completely different tone of voice. Quiet, pondered, warm, knowledgeable. I give him my bravest, thankful smile, knowing full well that it is still tainted with misery. He takes what he can get, knowing it's been offered in full honesty, and excuses himself calmly to cross the room and picks up his beloved violin. I lean back on my chair, itchy hands and frantic gunshot noises still forced to the back of my mind suddenly becoming less powerful and overwhelming. As Sherlock's bow crosses transversally the stretched violin strings I allow that growing melody to guide me back to safety. I close my weary eyes but keep my arms guarded in front of me. I don't quite feel safe yet, not really, but I know I can relax for a moment because Sherlock is keeping faithful watch, keeping my demons in check.

After a while I end up drifting to much needed, repairing slumber.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Yes, there's still a plan for this one. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

Late at night I'm startled by sudden knocks on my bedroom door. I must have been already nodding off, uninteresting book on my lap, lampshade illuminating from the nightstand, covers neatly folded up to my waist, as I sat reading in bed. Somehow I missed Sherlock's inevitable footsteps up the stairs, and it was with the same gentleness that the consulting detective knocked on the door separating us with bent knuckles.

It'd be imperiously, though, that he'd open the door and make his way in, without waiting for permission, rendering his previous mockery of courtesy just a tick in the box.

Well, I guess _he listened_ , all those times I told him to _knock first_.

The accompanying pleasantries of social norms being completely lost on the genius.

'Sherlock?' I ask, looking towards my friend at once. _Must be bad, if he came upstairs to get me._ Other methods of contact have included scratching his violin string in a horrible shrieking noise, firing only once at the living room ceiling (the bullet passed through it and the floorboards at the far end of my bedroom; he assures me he knew I was already safe in bed at the time), and calling 999 on Baker Street (of course I came down, stupidly upset that as a patient he hadn't called me as his doctor first).

'There's been another one, John.' Sherlock stands waiting at the door frame, searching for words to verbalise that doubt that sends deep vulnerability to his young looking eyes. _"Will you come, John?"_

I throw my covers back as a physical response to the unspoken question.

 _I'm John Watson, I'll always come with Sherlock Holmes to a crime scene._

I grab hold of my folded trousers, Sherlock snaps irritably: 'You don't need to get dressed, your nocturnal attire is sufficient.' As he perceives me staring him down, he rolls his eyes and insists: 'No, this time even you will think so. We're not leaving Baker Street. The crime scene is coming to us. The first part is already here.' Then he smiles, depravedly. 'Oh, I _love_ the bold ones! He's taunting me. A serial killer with a penchant for an archenemy, those are the best ones!'

'An archenemy', I mutter, confused.

'Me!' he particularizes with a maniac grin. _A bit not good_ , but I'll save that for another time.

'What do you mean, the crime scene is coming here?'

'Well, it is. I sent for it. Just the best parts, not all of it. Wouldn't fit, not until we start renting 221C in the basement, from Mrs Hudson.'

I grump away, as he's clearly ignoring me: 'I'm not sharing rent on a crime scene depot basement, Sherlock!'

He snaps his neck to face me. 'It was only a couple of bodies and over ten years ago, John. I didn't even think you knew!'

'What?' I shake my head, puzzled. There's been an actual crime scene in the basement, below Mrs H's flat?

Sherlock spasms his face into a simile of an instantaneous smile. 'Just teasing you, John. You're wide awake now', he says agreeably.

I'm not entirely convinced he was teasing me, but there's no time to ponder it. Sherlock's already explaining the new lead on the case currently at hand.

'I was sent a videoblog link, John, straight to my inbox. Only one video uploaded to the page. Nondescript, cheap, build-yourself website. Tried tracing it through the IP address, but it kept pinging all around the world. I'll let Mycroft's people handle it, they must be starved for some meaningful work by now. The video itself is a very graphic recording of our crime scene, John!'

'Oh, my god.' He actually sounds – and looks – elated.

I shiver before I can stop myself. 'The killer filmed himself–' I can't bring myself to verbalise what my mind's eye supplies only too easily.

Next thing I know, Sherlock is already guiding me backwards to sit at the side of the bed. _Damn, didn't want my friend to see me this frail._

'Not the killing, no, John. I believe he's saving that for last, hoping the violence will entice me like it does for him. Just the aftermath... Can't you see?' He gestures wildly. 'With his stupid bragging the killer has succeeded in giving me the best view of the freshest possible crime scene! I can study it, I can find important leads that time soon erases, John!'

 _Then why is he talking to me?_

Because he too needs a lifeline, that is strong enough to pull him back as he immerses himself in the most horrific scenario this killer can provide.

'Okay, Sherlock, I'll come down with you.'

'Actually, if you prefer to keep warm in bed we can use your laptop to–'

I shake my head briskly. He doesn't see that these walls have encapsulated enough nightmares to last me a lifetime.

'No, for this I need tea.'

Sherlock is studying my face already, I realise suddenly. Perhaps he did read my mind.

'Yes, tea', he agrees quietly.

 _ **.**_

The tea pot has gone cold by the time I get up from my seat at the kitchen table. Just a temporary pause, while I set more tea going, I keep telling myself, as I forcefully ignore Sherlock's eyes following me around. He hasn't left the horrible flow of imagery provided by my laptop, on the table (I'm a bit less keen on reclaiming the stolen property now, for some reason).

Throughout the grainy footage of a fuzzy silhouette, the killer had committed his crime in a heinous, predictable fashion, then proceeded to desecrated the corpse in his usual fashion and then simply found some blurred mysterious method of starting a quick, incendiary set of flames. Just an odd flicking movement of his arm and the place was soon taken over by flames. Presumably the killer left unharmed from behind the camera that kept rolling even his absence.

As the kettle has yet to boil, I lean over the sink, absentmindedly scrubbing those persistent tea stains inside my mug. I wish I could put it back as new, but it's become as damaged as me, a simple example of how messed up something can become. Only I wasn't as pristine as white porcelain to begin with, I–

Something startles me, I flinch and recoil, and somehow the mug comes flying off my hands and lands, crashing, against the linoleum floor. It shatters into a million pieces as a deep shiver mingles with the sudden raise in heart beat pounding at my chest. It could have been amusing, hadn't my instincts reacted to Sherlock's careless noise as if I was in life threatening danger. I could be laughing, weren't I still feeling in the back of my mind as if I should be fighting or fleeing, as if the walls were crushing in around me and less oxygen remained in the room.

As soon as it came, it was gone, and I recover full control. I groan, staring at the shards of white porcelain with something akin to regret. That RAMC mug had accompanied me since my return to London. Just one of those silly souvenirs one's army mates can mash up together when saying farewell to one of their own, being washed out of the army due to injuries.

'John?'

Sherlock is watching me, I realise as I face him and take notice of the questioning tone given to my name. I smile briefly and pointing at the broken mug I confess: 'That was silly. Don't know what got to me. Was there a noise?'

Sherlock nods, scrutinising me still. 'I pulled the chair back and it scratched on the floor. You had your back to me, perhaps for the first time in days. You are a soldier. Usually you relax once at Baker Street, but normally, outside at least, you keep yourself facing the room and those in it, at all times. Washing the mug made you have to turn your back to me. The noise made you jump in a disproportionate way to the logical level of threat, that you perceived as far greater, and for that I apologise. John, I never wished for you to feel threatened while at home.'

I smile at the mention of Baker Street as home. But Sherlock's overdoing his deductions of his flatmate. I got startled, maybe I'm more tired than I thought.

I'm about to mention the porcelain mingled with washing up liquid spread out on the floor when Sherlock directs: 'Wait.' I do, curious. He opens a filing cupboard that has found its way by the kitchen sink, revealing a number of duplicates of my mug. _What on earth?_

'Sherlock...' I warn him. He must explain this. _My mug is off-limits!_

Well, was it my mug? How many times before has replaced my mug? And why? How did he deface it so heinously that it was beyond my acceptance? And when – oh, lord, _when_ – did he decide to generously give himself away, making me aware of his dirty tricks, to make me feel better?

'Sherlock, we'll talk about this later', I grunt as I grab one of his offered mugs. He smirks, knowing the mug has just become a peace offering. And that a nice cuppa can always get me in a lenient mood.

'So, Sherlock, what do you think?' I ask, referring to the gore-filled video.

He opens his mouth to talk, but is preceded by heavy yet agile footsteps coming up the stairs. 'Lestrade', I recognise.

'The crime scene has arrived', the detective smirks, engrossed. 'Now to test my hypothesis!' He gets away, full of brimming excitement.

'Sherlock...' I sense something. Not quite sure what is setting the alarm bells off, so I follow him closely as he meets the detective inspector by the kitchen's door.

'Have you got it?' he snaps at Greg, without letting catch a breath or say Hi.

'Here', our friend pulls up a small glass vial, the type used by the forensics people. 'Why did you insist I get vegetable oil on it? What's it for? Anderson didn't know.'

'Anderson's a dimwit.'

'I thought you liked Anderson now.'

'Not when he's being a dimwit.'

'Why is he being a dimwit?'

'Now _you're_ being a dimwit?'

'Can we please stop saying "dimwit"?' Greg raises his voice, exasperated. I try my best at hiding my smile. Sherlock spots it, though, but doesn't seem bothered at all.

'Sherlock, please', I do my role, calling a recess on their bickering. 'What is that thing?' I look pointedly at the glass vial.

'That is one of the most reactive and inflammable elements of the periodic table, John.'

Lestrade complains without heart: 'Again with the periodic table, Sherlock?'

'Yes, we've got another letter.'

'A letter?'

'And a name, I'd guess', he adds.

I allow myself a deep intake of breath. Greg just marks: 'You say you never guess, Sherlock.'

Our cocky friend instantaneously looks like a wet cat. 'This time I'll allow myself the indulgence', he recovers quickly. 'This is a group one metal', he introduces, raising the vial to see through against the long halogen lamp over the kitchen table. A small dull lump sits in oil inside it. 'Soft, malleable, shiny when cut.' The mad scientist carelessly grabs hold of a kitchen knife and gently, precisely, extracts a small portion of the lump on the tip of the blade.

'You have recovered this from the crime scene?'

'Yes, what's left of it, after the fire spread through a Soho warehouse, just like you deduced, Sherlock', the DI confirms. 'So what is that?'

Sherlock's eyes narrow dangerously as he immobilises himself with the blade outstretched in his hand, the other hand still raised in the air, poised like a magician delighting his audience.

'This is the murder weapon of our killer's choice this night, Lestrade', he states, before suddenly flinging the small sample of the substance at the kitchen sink. It reacts violently at contact with the leftover water. _That_ could easily start a fire.

'And the name-thing you said, Sherlock?' I recover calmly; as Greg is yet to close is mouth, opened in awe.

He smiles coldly. 'It's not every day I'm the one a serial killer is trying to impress, John. This is rubidium. The chemical symbol being _Rb_ , but in the past it has been know as simply _R_.'

' _Sher–_ ' I recognise, exchanging a worried glance with Greg. Sherlock might be all flattered, but I know this is far too dangerous. We must be sure to keep our crazy detective friend protected.

'Lots of words start with _Sher–_ ', Greg tries to cool down the genius.

Scrabble is one of the few board games Sherlock and I have yet to play.

I blink. 'Can't think of another name, let alone a good word that can could actually make sense. Err... Sherry? Sheriff? Sherpa? ... Sherbet?' I struggle.

Sherlock snaps out of his daydream momentarily. 'Hm. Sherbet. Yes, please, I'll have some, John.'

Before I can say anything he's already walking out on us, grabbing his coat to leave Baker Street. I try to follow at once.

'No. Stay', he snaps at me. Almost commands. 'I need to think. You'd only be in the way, John.'

 _ **.**_


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: I did not read scores of worthy medical papers and scientific studies – because writing is not my day job – and so, if there are inaccuracies, please accept my apologies. Still not British, a writer, or anything other than myself. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

 _'Sherlock!'_ I shout after my friend, realising he has just given me the slip.

Not bothering with my jacket or any other comfort, I rush to follow the long legged detective down the stairs. I open 221's front door and peer out onto the street. It's as empty and quiet as it is immersed in darkness at the quiet hours of the night. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. I look around, desperate to find a trace of my friend, so willing to get himself into trouble without back-up; _I need to find Sherlock._ The concrete slabs of the sidewalk reveal no footprints, the night cold crisp air retains no fragrance of Sherlock's aftershave, it's only in the movies that detectives tail their targets so easily. I take a few steps outside, not knowing in which direction to turn in my search. I pick up my phone from a pocket and seriously ponder dialing Mycroft Holmes, the supreme commander in chief of London's cctv cameras. _Too early._ Sherlock would get mad at me if I called in his big brother.

Ignoring the fact that I just left Greg upstairs in 221B (he can make himself at home, he knows where the kettle is), I've wandered in a few lost steps where instinct might lead me. I find myself in the back alley behind Baker Street, among the rubbish bins.

That's where a small flicker of a movement attracts my attention from a dimly lit window at ground level, narrow and short, but wide. _Sherlock is found._ He never left Baker Street. He took refuge in 221C, the basement flat, analysing leads, supposedly keeping me from where he's stashed the worst, most graphic and detailed files of the case. He's trying to keep me out of the most triggering parts after my flashbacks. He's intent on protecting me, but he won't turn away from a case that is eroding him half as much as it is doing to me. We both must see this through.

Taking a deeply relieved breath, I find that I'm exhausted. So tired, that I just take a seat in the alley, by the low basement window, enjoying knowing Sherlock is working on the other side of that frosted glass, nearby and safe. I could fall asleep so easily, lulled by Sherlock's gentle sounds as he hums, paces, flips pages noisily. It's a familiar melody that has grounded me several times before. A reliable dependency that never fails to centre me when I'm off my game. I close my eyes, allowing myself a few minutes for that peace and quiet to permeate into my very soul.

 _ **. rubidium .**_

'Sherwood Forrest!' I snap to attention, trailing my eyes away from the telly.

Sherlock keeps absolutely calm as he focuses on me, then on the television and back to his scientific studies at the living room table.

Morning has broken and Baker Street is back to normal. Greg Lestrade has left some time last night, I have returned to my room for a couple more hours of restless sleep and Sherlock eventually came back up to 221B, at about the same time I came down for a morning coffee and some breakfast. I fed myself and the genius, and then brought my coffee with me to the long sofa, while I mindlessly watched the telly and Sherlock dwelled on mysterious scientific experiments at the kitchen table.

'John?'

I turn to my friend, excitement rushing in my veins. 'Sherwood Forrest', I repeat, mesmerized.

'Heard you the first time. What about it?'

'What if _sher–_ is a place, not a person?' I ask, pointing my finger at him in accusation. Always so bloody cocky, he had to figure out he was the target of a serial killer's attention, just because he's a genius with an uncommon name. _Try and get a serial killer to spell out J-O-H-N with his beloved periodic table_ and _let me know how many Johns there are in London alone!_

'A location', Sherlock repeats, monotone, while frowning slightly.

'It's in Nottingham. We can drive there.'

'You want to go on a morning hike to a Forrest, John', Sherlock flashes a dead smile as he says it. 'How very... _healthy_ of you.'

'No, don't be daft, it doesn't suit you. What makes you sure the killer is not trying to spell out _Sherwood Forrest_ instead of _Sherlock Holmes_?'

The detective rolls his eyes. 'And about that location, John, if we go there, will the killer be there under an oak tree, having a picnic? Waiting for someone to read the clues and join him for a marmite sandwich?'

 _Well... no._ I frown, angered by his sarcasm. 'Guess not.'

'Will he have hidden there his murder weapons, or the knife he used to gut his victims, still full of his fingerprints for the Scotland Yard to process?'

'Okay, I get it', I grump, hurt.

'You've been watching too much crap telly, John. Real life tends to have slightly more common sense than your average television series or...' he's come over to check what's on at the moment '...your morning kids cartoons', he ends, incredulous.

I look at the telly with even more suspicion. Honestly I was miles away in my mind. Have I really been watching cartoons on the telly?

I bet he put them on to mess with me.

'Never mind the telly', I sigh, rubbing my face with the palm of my hand.

Sherlock returns to the living room table with a victorious smirk while I power off the stupid television.

The doorbell rings downstairs. It startles me, and I almost jump to attention. Sherlock, on the other hand, just about groans. As I look curiously at my friend he reports: 'My brother Mycroft.'

'How do you know? Did he call ahead? No, he never does that. Did you hear him arrive?' I point over my shoulder to the windows facing the street.

'I _didn't_ hear him arrive', Sherlock tells me, pointedly. Mycroft's secret service cars are virtually inaudible.

Just a few seconds later and Sherlock's older brother is coming up the stairs. Slightly out of breath (the diet's not going so well, I take it), he flounders his politeness around:

'Sherlock. John. The place looks... the same.'

His brother asks drily: 'What brought you here this time, Mycroft?'

'Your latest case, brother mine. It has been upgraded to a matter of national security.'

Sherlock shrugs, unimpressed. 'That alone wouldn't have brought you here.'

'Couldn't I be visiting my favourite detective brother?'

'We don't have another detective brother, Mycroft.'

'So we don't', he falsely ponders. 'The bar isn't set too high, is it?' he wonders, extra courteous. 'So when the keystrokes recording programme on John's phone signalled that he almost called me last night, I thought I'd come here personally, first thing in the morning.'

Sherlock glances at me heavily, and remarks: 'Not first thing, Mycroft. You went to your favourite patisserie, there's still a minute crumble of mint macaroon on your tie. If your people fails to notice and point out the obvious, you are in need of new staff, brother.'

I'm taking out my phone and staring at it, incredulous. I'm quite sure it breaches my right to privacy.

Sherlock comments airily: 'But I will give you the morning part, Mycroft. The sun has just risen.'

Mycroft turns to my red-faced anger and reminds me shortly: 'There's no keeping secrets from a Holmes, John. You should know that by now, seriously.'

I bite my words: 'Is this how you use governmental technology? Monitoring and recording my private life?'

Mycroft doesn't bother with answering me. He thinks it's justifiable, as long as it keeps his little brother safe. _Brotherly love._

'Have you solved the case yet, Sherlock?' Mycroft asks, loftily; _he's on a roll._ 'Have you impressed John yet?'

Sherlock comes to stand right between his brother and me, either to mediate us or insightfully ready to break us apart.

Mycroft's eyes narrow as he takes it in. Somehow, it's like those two just shared a conversation over me. Sherlock then steps away, gangly.

'We've got second best', Sherlock tells his brother while looking directly at me (because he knows I actually care about the victims themselves, not just national security). 'We know the typical victimology of the serial killer. He's after young adult females who are vulnerable and alone. Women living on the streets, who are desperate enough to agree to do things for money to survive.'

Mycroft haughtily looks away. 'I believe there are grants the government awards, they are called "benefits", Sherlock.'

The detective's eyes narrow in flashed anger. 'Victim number one was on the run, on the streets. No fixed address to ask for help because she wanted to escape her boyfriend.'

'Ex-boyfriend, you mean.'

'Not when she kept returning to him, he wasn't.'

'Ah, the fickleness of the human heart', the older Holmes philosophies. 'She could have asked for help nonetheless. There are organisations–'

I cut to the chase, angered: 'She didn't deserve to die. None of them did.'

The two Holmes brothers fixate scrutinising states on me. I look back at them in defy. _Read away._

Sherlock is the first to abandon that ridiculous Holmes uppish stance. He looks away, a fleeting vulnerability tainting his young face.

'John. I was merely stating that we know the type the killer searches for. Scotland Yard is aware. There are fielders warning the most vulnerable across London, offering help, support, trying to keep them safe. I've sent messages to all my homeless network too. They are on the look out.'

'But there are thousands of vulnerable people in a big city like London.'

'Yes.' I dry swallow. He too knows it could be too little too late.

'He's been all over the city. Isn't there a pattern?'

'No, John.'

'Didn't Scotland Yard pick up DNA, fingerprints or footprints of the killer on any of the crime scenes?'

'All publically accessible places or with a high flow of comings and goings. Computers are on it, hard drives comparing thousands of entries to figure out who could have been in all three places, but there are no results yet', Sherlock reports.

'Get faster computers, then. This is now a matter of national security, right? Your name spells out four more victims: _-lock._ We know there are other murders about to be committed. Lithium is next. Should spell _Li_ but no one calls you _Sherli_.'

Mycroft turns his face away briskly, sniggering in a juvenile fashion. Sherlock rolls his eyes at his brother.

'Sherlock', I call for his attention. 'There are two people too few out there on the streets', I state, grabbing my black jacket from the back of my armchair. 'We need all hands on deck.'

Mycroft, who has by now recovered from the laughing fit, reminds me sternly: 'This is not the navy, captain Watson.'

I smirk. 'No. But it's still a battle.'

 _ **.**_

Life carries on, even at the times when it seems to mock us and make little sense of our hopes and efforts. In the end Sherlock persuaded me to act normally, go for a boring shift at the surgery (his adjectivation, not mine; but I wholly agree). I made my friend promise to call me if there were any changes – leads, theories, rumours on the streets, fresh corpses – and fully performed my contracted hours.

Returning to Baker Street may have never felt this grateful before.

A surprise awaited for me at home.

'Sherlock–' I start, before realising I'm honestly speechless as I walk in.

The mad genius glances at me, eyebrows going up, waiting for me to continue. He seems to ignore the oddity of his detective work in the kitchen.

I blink. _The scene is still there._

I've seen worst, I think. This is... _creatively weird_. Is it Sherlock's attempt at mollycoddling my frazzled nerves?

The kitchen table has been cleared of its customary chemistry glassware paraphernalia. Instead, the unsuspectingly long empty surface has been adapted to a free interpretation of an empty kitchen table. No real body parts – _thank you!_ – lay on its wooden surface. What forms the human viscera and bone laid out in anatomical likeness have been recreated out of coloured yarn, knitted into the shape of different body organs, wrapped up in a rudimentary skeleton in pearly white yarn.

'You've been busy', I comment; _only because you're supposed to say something, right?_

I take up an anatomically correct heart made out of red acrylic wool for the tissue and artery and blue for the veins. It's like holding a medical school's heart model, only this is _fluffy_ and almost _cute._

 _Lord, what is wrong with me?_

Sherlock mutters, feigning resentment: 'Figures you'd go for that one, out of all of Molly's handiwork.'

I snap out of my astonished state. 'Molly knitted these? There's a lot of work here. Did she do these for you?'

'No, I just borrowed them from her personal collection. She works long shifts in the morgue, John. She's allowed a hobby.'

I giggle, _inappropriately._

I finally snuggle the wool heart back into the rib cage. 'She really cares about you, you nutter, if she's letting you have a play with these.'

'Not me, us', Sherlock replies in all seriousness.

I look up at once, trying to decipher my friend's expression. It sinks in that he chose knitted body parts to lay on the kitchen table _for my benefit._ He'd have laid out real body parts in neatly labelled freezer bags (slowly defrosting) if he hadn't been witness of my recent PTSD-related flashbacks, triggered by the vicious killer's handiwork. Sherlock's kindness yet again breaking all societal norms and showing the detective's incredible heart.

'Okay, Sherlock, tell me, what's the reason for this "show and tell"?'

My best friend answers in all rationality: 'Determining whether there's a pattern or a reason for our periodic table killer's method in extracting and displaying his victim's internal organs, John.'

'So we're explaining his moves with wool models?' I ask. He nods.

'I have a photographic memory and you are a doctor. Together maybe we can make sense of this man's addiction.'

I take a grounding breath. 'Okay, makes sense.' Sherlock smiles softly as he recognises I'm on board with little persuasion.

'Do you think there's more to it, Sherlock? He's not just trying to be a modern day Jack the Ripper to get your attention?'

'Anderson thinks not', the detective answers without looking me in the eye.

'Anderson?' Sherlock doesn't answer me. 'I thought you said he was a dimwit', I bait him.

'He still is. But Anderson is one of the co-founders of an online Jack the Ripper investigative society. He's well aware of the past cases. I don't keep cases over a hundred years old clogging up my hard drive, John.' He means his memory.

I nod, slowly. 'Has Anderson shed any new light on our case?'

'Yes, he has let me know that the New Scotland Yard is still as moronic today as its equivalent was in the Victorian era', Sherlock snaps. 'But we are about to change that.'

I join my friend's cocky smirk. He hands me the knitted heart as he would a sacrificial offering. 'If you'd be so kind as to place that by the door for our victim number one...'

 _ **.**_


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: Sorry, I've been neglecting this story, I know._

 _On a different note, it's been three years posting things here. Uninteresting fact, I'm sure, yet it fills me with astonishment. Thanks for being a part of this journey of mine by reading. Honest to god, there are much better writers out there! Don't say I haven't warned you!_

 _I'm still not British, a writer, or anything other than a dreamer. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

221B's kitchen has become our newest crime scene; that is to say, its re-enactment. We've successfully reconstructed the first two crime scenes of our periodic table serial killer. The third one having been only partially visible before getting scorched down to ashes.

Scotland Yard had to launch a public concern notice and DI Lestrade was pressured into releasing as much information as he had on the killer's MO at a press conference. Of course our friend kept Sherlock's name connection to the killings quiet (at least for now), but the press delighted themselves with the chemical substances present at each crime scene. It was the press who coined the name "the periodic table killer". For now they believe the killer's choice of different chemical elements to be random, possibly to keep the Yard guessing.

I'm prepared to spread rumours on "the sherbet killer", at the first sign of someone adding the letters together. You see, I don't have a reputation to keep. I can go out publically saying I deduced beryllium to be the next element. As Sherlock Holmes' sidekick I'd garner enough attention for myself to pass on the message. The public might even enjoy seeing me getting it wrong, the final proof that Sherlock is an unattainable genius and I'm just the ordinary man, like the lot of them. They'd love to mock me for years to come.

And as the killer chooses his victims randomly from a pool of vulnerable individuals marginalised by society, it's not like my lie would put anyone in more danger than they are now.

Sherlock is not too keen on my idea. I honestly thought he'd find it clever. Somehow he got into his thick skull that I'd be selling myself short to protect him uselessly, by publicising a knowingly faulty theory. With Sherlock's lifelong pursuit of the factual truths he compares my offer to a soldier falling on his sword so that his army can win the battle. He'll have none of that from me. I told him quite frankly that I'm strong enough to take the backlash when the truth emerges. They can mock me, tease me, insult me; I'll be on a mission.

"You'd be labelled a freak, acting out for attention", Sherlock told me, in a flat, monotone voice.

His emotionless stance just emphasising to me how rocky and arduous his own journey must have been in order to become the Baker Street's consulting detective. The many insults and put-downs he must have received, long before I met him, as he studied his trade alone, self-taught, learning from his mistakes. Rising from the ground every time he got knocked down, very little in the way of support or help, only his stubbornness leading him on. My friend might be a cocky jerk sometimes, but then I remember he earned himself the right.

"I really don't mind what people might call me", I tried to be generous. In no way was I trying to trivialise what he had gone through. _The freak_ , showing up at crime scenes, disregarded as he gave valuable inputs just because he wasn't formally trained (he could have been, he's surely clever enough, maybe just not that patient for the tick-the-box approach at crime solving), because he wasn't a Yarder or a forensic technician? How frustrating it must have been to point out details relevant _to the truth_ and have no-one listen?

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted like he was ready to growl at me. When he spoke, the words came out sharp and dangerous: "I wouldn't stand by, idle, as they insulted your mental prowess, John." That sounded a lot like a covert threat on anyone depreciating me. Would Sherlock take his loyalty to the extreme of getting himself into trouble with the better half of London? "That would distract me from my primary focus, which should be catching this killer. I wish you didn't devise ways of distracting me, John. It's not all about you, you know?"

So, with my daredevil pan aborted for the time being, Sherlock and I spent the last couple of hours redecorating 221B's rundown kitchen. Not that Mrs Hudson would approve of it. _In_ _fact, it's wise if she doesn't come to know about it._ If she came upstairs, there's all probability that she wouldn't be amused by the seeming explosion of some knitting factory, and all the coloured yarn patches lying about. The red thread that Sherlock so often used to link ideas on his mind maps on the wall, directing suspect reports to opportunity and methodology, now substituted by the heavier yarn thread of the serial killer's blood dripping crime scene decorations.

On the kitchen counter, on the window blinds, hanging from the top of the kitchen door and stretching to the top of the fridge. Woven around a fractional distillation column of Sherlock's labware paraphernalia on the side table.

The heart is in the oven and the brain is on the fridge. The latter is possibly the only one that doesn't stray much from Sherlock's usual ways.

'The positioning of the victims' _bits and bobs_ is almost identical on the first two crime scenes with little difference on the third', Sherlock comments as we consider our work finally done.

'Was he camera shy, hasting through the third crime scene?' I wonder.

'Perhaps he's evolving. That's dangerous. Evolution on serial killers usually translates to escalation.' Sherlock tilts his head to the side, pondering the large intestine hanging from the halogen light over the table. He reaches over and adjusts it minutely. _He's a perfectionist._ 'It's also consistent', the detective adds then, 'with the most detailed news articles from the Jack the Ripper's crimes.'

'I thought the Victorian era reports were inconsistent.'

'I ruled out the most idiotic and sensationalist ones, in my search for serious reports, John. It's the only way to go about solving such old mysteries.'

I smirk at once. _The great Sherlock Holmes is trying to solve Jack the Ripper's mystery. I knew he wasn't for real when he said he didn't care to solve dead and buried historical mysteries!_

'Do stop smirking, John. Your wrinkly expression will soon convey the impression that you are right much more often than it's actually true...'

 _ **.**_

'Hand them over, John.'

'What?' I don't get it. I've just come in, crossed the threshold, what could this be about? I went out, got back, and Sherlock only had a fleeting glance my way before his incensed tirade.

'Left jacket pocket, if you please. I have no interest in the barely started snack you've stored on your right jacket pocket.'

'What?' I insist, blinking.

'Left jacket pocket.'

'I think you just like saying "jacket pocket", Sherlock. It rhymes.' I fold my arms in front of me, daring him.

'Fine, if you make me say it out loud. The grass stains on the cuffs of your trousers are recent and their colour is consistent with the sap of _Silybum marianum sp_ , or milk thistle, that can be found at the closest park to St Bart's. So why the intent visit, arranged on a short notice? No pollen residue on your clothes, so no flowers; that means you weren't visiting a patient there. No signs of chaffed epidermis on your knuckles, so you haven't had latex gloves rubbing on them; that means you weren't there as a locum doctor either. Who, then, would receive you on such a short notice? A friend. Mike Stanford. And why call on him so suddenly when you haven't missed his friendship for so long? Discussing some medical detail pertaining our case, given that you are both doctors? If only we were so lucky. No. You needed a discrete doctor you could trust for a favour, because you can't write yourself a prescription. You needed one from Mike. What sort of medication could force you to such a foolish attempt at secrecy from me? Sleeping pills. You rightfully assumed I would be upset by your return to sleeping aids to get you through the night.'

'There's nothing wrong with taking sleeping pills.'

'No, there isn't', he agrees. 'Possibly you've figured out I enjoy playing the violin at the odd hours and that has a soothing effect on your sleeping patterns, but obviously you don't trust me to keep it up, and you are afraid your recent flashbacks will filter onto vivid nightmares. Past experience assures you that is the likely outcome.'

'I wouldn't ask that of you, Sherlock. You couldn't possibly be on stand-by every night.'

'You wouldn't have to ask...' he tells me, still acting derisively. 'So, sleeping pills, unbeknown to me, Mike Stanford was willing to be your enabler on this matter. Did I leave anything out?'

'No', I say, bewildered to the extreme.

'Yes, I did. We agreed, John; no drugs on site at Baker Street, under any circumstances. Nothing more serious than Ibuprofen. Those break our deal. Hand them over so I can dispose of them properly, John.'

My hand clasps over the fabric of my jacket pocket and the bulge underneath. _It's my safety net, Sherlock._

Before I argue my case to my well-meant but overbearing friend, he teases me: 'I know a guy who can make you a profit on those, John, if money is an issue.'

 _Oh, I bet he does! He's trying to anger me now._

'You're not going anywhere near a drug dealer, Sherlock! If I can't take them, you are not having them either! You can watch while I give them to Mike, for some patient who's strung up for cash or something... But, so you know, they aren't even that strong, Sherlock. I could tell you of other medications with far worse side-effects and addiction consequences that I _didn't_ ask of Mike!'

Suddenly Sherlock opens his eyes wide as if he just had a revelation. I'm mesmerised just by looking at him.

'John, as always you are my conductor of light!' he snaps, as he grabs his coat and scarf from nearby. 'Lithium! Not as the soft group one metal, but the psychoactive medication. I knew the killer wouldn't disappoint me, he wouldn't repeat himself, he's never been that boring before! We are looking for a new location, and this time we know what kind, John!' he impresses his urgency on me by grabbing me by the shoulders. 'We are looking for an old mental asylum around London, John! It's private and follows the theme. Grab an apple, John, and come along – what are you waiting for?'

'How do you know I fancy an apple right now?' I ask, stupidly, he's already grabbing an apple from the fridge and pressing it against my chest mindlessly.

'An apple a day keeps the doctor away!' he snaps back, master of his own logic.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: I'd take a hundred indifferent acquaintances over a fake friend, if I could choose. -csf_

* * *

 _ **. lithium .**_

Sherlock Holmes would like the world to have it that he does not work hard at being one of the best investigative minds of all time. He would want criminals, police officers and clients alike to believe he can come up with answers at the drop of a hat.

 _I know for a fact that he works really hard._

It wasn't a simple wander down memory lane that allowed Sherlock to narrow down the list of possible scenarios for the periodic table killer's next crime scene. It was determined, methodical work that led him, with a reasonable degree of accuracy, to dig up from facts stored in his mind palace to isolate an old, disused mental facility in the outskirts of London.

As Sherlock's assistant, I followed him immediately, in full confidence.

Once in the rundown facilities, with the stained floors and bare walls of an eerie sort of structural beauty, Sherlock and I agree on the plan. We will split and go on different ways. Sherlock intends us to corner the killer. He'll spook him and I'll guard the exit, closing the deal. A simple plan, for an overdue resolution.

Sherlock hands me the Browning and pats his long coat pocket to mutedly let me know he's got his own handgun too. _Where he's got that exaggerated revolver from, so fitting alongside his cocky personality, I don't know and he won't tell me. Plausible deniability, I believe it's meant to be, so I don't have to downright lie to the Yard one of these days._

The walls on this side of the building are pale pink. It's meant to be soothing and comforting, according to the old scientific studies on colour perception and chromatic influence. Personally I'm finding it saccharine, as room after room that I clear with my gun drawn I keep being met by the same shade of sickly pink. The colour could have never soothed me, as I was at my lowest at an army infirmary, trying to understand what was going on with me as the PTSD first flared up. Pink wouldn't even come close to solving it.

 _A frankly alarming shade of pink_ actually solved it in the end, as Sherlock let me in on what would be my very first case, the one with the pink lady. _Funny that._

Finally reaching the front door I rapidly secure this area, and then take cover in the small reception, among an abandoned desk and chair, and piled up crates of forgotten contents. I'm studying the possible routes, the hideouts, the angles from which I could hide to shoot my gun unnoticed, and this is when I start noticing the ceiling lights flickering. I look up to the large overhanging lamp in surprise, as the sharp lights keep coming in and out in lightening bright spasms.

So, there is electricity in the building and someone's messing with it.

I frown, as I realise it could be Morse code. Y – G – E ?

A sudden low noise distracts me at once, rumbling throughout the building, followed by loud, thumping footsteps like marching boots. What if it's not _a_ killer, what if there are _several_ of them?

Something gets to me, and suddenly it's too hot, too dangerous, I'm about to die if I don't hide, curl into a ball, make myself small and disappear. I run to hide behind the wooden crates, huddling into a tight ball, desperately trying not to hyperventilate, not to throw up, _not to break down entirely._

 _Sand_. Warm sand drips from my fingertips. It comes from within me, deep down where the level of sand keeps rising and rising, like an hourglass filling, signalling the end is nigh.

I jump at the scorching touch of foreign fingertips on my shoulder, and raise my fists in both self-protection and aggression. My gun, I must have lost it long ago, as I began to spiral into my flashback, as I lost myself to the dark demons.

Worriedly gazing back at me is Sherlock. He must have known, sensed it telepathically; or he came over for something else, entirely unrelated. It hardly matters. His touch as been a risky move on a triggered soldier, but it paid off. It managed to rescue me from the demons crowding inside my mind.

 _Oh lord, how will my friend see me now, after this?_ I cringe and shelter my face on my hands, hoping I could just as easily hide myself from the world right now.

I take a deeper breath and look over to Sherlock, daring to face my doom.

Instead of reproach, what I see in my friend's expression verges on admiration and soft caring. _He really sees me as he always has._ A stable influence, a solid presence, a strong soldier. What he witnessed, he doesn't allow to influence him any more than his friend having a minor mishap, like if I had tripped over my feet, or sneezed loudly in a silent library. Sherlock is looking at me with a sort of innocent admiration, as if I was his guide into this flashback riddled nightmare. As if, in his eyes, I'm always in perfect control, and steering Sherlock himself to safe waters as we navigate the strange seas we cross.

In this perfect moment in time, I let my friend's assuredness over my strength to be the voice for my inner turmoil. I choose to believe him, and desperately I decide to fight back, always fight, because I want to be this heroic person my friend sees in me. _If Sherlock believes in me... Well, I wouldn't dare to let down Sherlock._ It's well known that I'm incapable of saying No to Sherlock. There's, in fact, a whole division in New Scotland Yard that is willing to testify to that effect. _And it suits me well._

I'll trust that heroism that Sherlock sees in me, despite anyone else's two cents.

 _Sherlock's trust pulling me through._

'And the killer?' I rasp out at last, my words still feeling oddly detached from me as I deliver them.

'He must have gone by as you lowered your guard, John. Or raised it too high', he adds for good measure. Sherlock won't hide my failure from me in honest camaraderie. As if there was nothing to hide because I didn't fail Sherlock, it was beyond my abilities in that moment to stop the killer from sneaking past me.

 _Then why do I feel like I failed so miserably?_

A shiver runs down my body and my defences break down a little further. 'There was Morse code with the ceiling lights, and they were spelling "Oxygen" and...'

'No, John, they weren't. This victim was presented to us with "Lithium" as the chemical element.'

'But, I... Some letters...'

'The visual stimuli triggered you, John. Your mind supplied the rest.'

'But the lights, they were really flickering', I insist.

Sherlock nods, patiently. 'The killer's actions caused a power surge in the facility's electric board.'

'You've found the latest victim? There was another one? We couldn't stop him.' I already know the answer to my own questions.

'Let us say the killer was in a hurry. He used power tools this time. He was done as I followed the scent of the warm blood and found him...I stuck to our original plan, John. I spooked him towards you.'

'And I just let him by.'

Sherlock's voice turns sterner. 'You became momentarily unaware of the reality around you... Honestly, John, perhaps it was for the best. In the state you were in, if he had seen you hiding here, he'd have little difficulty harming you... What I'm trying to say is that I've exposed you to further danger and that was my miscalculation alone.'

My friend's selfless assignment of the blame to himself can hardly compensate for my inadequacy tonight.

 _We've never been so close and I let the killer go free._

 _ **.**_

The cab ride home felt empty and bitter. Sherlock and I shared the back seat of the cab, but we may as well have been on distant corners of the universe. My friend was cold and distant, and only the episodic pursing of his lips was a tell of how much he was trying to repress his anger and frustration at a vicious killer slipping away. Edging ever so slightly towards the cab's cold glass window, Sherlock insisted the blame was his and kept his mind set on the possible next victims and scenarios, desperate for another chance to catch this fiend. On the other side of the same back seat we silently shared, I was blaming myself for letting Sherlock down. A few sharp lights and thundering noises and I had duck for cover, transformed from a soldier to a victim of war, feeling paralysed by deep fear of things, and memories, that weren't really there.

I want to tell Sherlock to take Greg with him, next time around. Greg wouldn't freeze on the most inconvenient moment. If I selfishly stop myself from verbalising the painful, selfless request it is because, deep down, I fear Greg may not be enough to keep Sherlock under check. Between the mad detective and me there is a wordless flow of intuitive understanding that Greg hasn't quite developed with Sherlock. Often it is a small sound, a small twitch of an eyebrow that conveys instant messages like "go behind the tall cabinet and wait for my signal to shoot the hired help as I get the big shot". Simple messages like that can easily get lost between a less accustomed pairing.

For the first time in years, arriving at Baker Street lacked that gratifying feeling of safety and refuge. The air in here feels stale and heavy, clinging between the bright wallpapers like a desperate ageing woman putting on too much makeup to distract the attention from her wrinkles and tired countenance. Wearily, I step over the stained carpet – mostly chemical stains that Sherlock got into it with his reckless notion of science – and, fatigued, I fall back on my armchair, lifting a small cloud of dust that makes me sniffle. It's not until now that I realise that Sherlock's attention is again focused closely on me, as if he can read me even in his partial view of me from the kitchen.

'Tea, John?' he asks, nonchalant.

'Give me a minute', I volunteer tiredly, knowing full well the query is not an offer but a request.

 _Some days I regret hooking up the detective with the addictive personality into good, drinkable, cuppas._

Looking over my shoulder back at Sherlock I see his mind has already moved on to something else. He's furiously typing on his phone with a victorious, self-congratulating smirk that emerges on his tired face.

I'm glad Sherlock keeps his stamina. This has been one difficult serial killer to catch, and I won't forget any time soon that the killer has got his eye on Sherlock too. The ultimate nemesis, luring and tempting the naïve genius to come and play the killer's lurid games.

'Gonna go out for some fresh air, John! I'll be back before you miss me!' he promises, following that sudden energetic mood.

I force myself to get up at once. 'Sherlock, I won't let you get into trouble out there without me!' My voice comes out sharp and clear, perhaps a little authoritarian, and as a result my mad friend actually freezes on the spot. He focuses on me and, with no sugar coating, he lets me know:

'The killer's got his job done for tonight. He's now experiencing a very rewarding euphoria high, he feels satiated just from replaying his perverse actions in his mind, over and over again. Until the novelty wears off, he's not bound to go look for another victim, John. He wouldn't even take me up on a fight if he had the chance. He prefers to savour it; as he's building his way up towards me, hoping to frighten me into submission, to defeat me by exhaustion. To be blunt, the killer is trying to put me in your shoes, John.' Sherlock comes some slow, feral couple of steps towards me. 'He wants to tire me out by using my reasoning, my imagination; so that when he finally comes for me I'll be defeated, docile, waiting for the inevitable and tragic conclusion. That's his game, and it's one I don't particularly care for, John. I will not be the killer's victim, nor have I given you permission, John, to take that responsibility to yourself.'

And, shedding those mysterious, dark promises, Sherlock turns and leaves the flat with a resolute, borderline on stubborn, expression.

I'm left in a cold, damp old flat, that doesn't quite feel like home anymore.

 _ **.**_

I'm sat at the kitchen table with a cuppa turned cold and my laptop open on the BBC news, by the time I hear Sherlock's return. He takes a while longer to open and shut the front door downstairs and I take that as sign that he too is naturally exhausted by this haunting case.

That I've sat at the best position to monitor Sherlock's return – I was once a soldier, I know how to do stake-outs – is something I'm hoping I can camouflage well enough for my friend not to notice and take offense. _Sherlock does not take kindly to be investigated and deduced himself._ He seems to feel it somehow disrupts the neutrality of his position as the investigator, drags him kicking and screaming into the heart of the game as a player, leads him to fall victim to the restrictions of perspective and restricted knowledge that the rest of us face. If he had it his own way, he'd remain omnipotent and distant from all of us, detached from all misleading human emotions (particularly where they concern me and his other friends) and we'd all be mere tight-fitting puzzle pieces that needed to be collected and assembled to create the full picture.

Sighing, I shut the laptop before Sherlock can peek through my web history and see I've been studying the press releases concerning our periodic table killer.

'John? John!' he calls me, excited, from the stairwell, 'I've brought a guest, hope you're decent, if not you may want to put some clothes on!'

 _What? He's the one who prances about till two in the afternoon in those bloody bed sheets! He still does that, even after Buckingham bloody Palace!_

I spring up from the kitchen chair, trying not to focus on the littered mess in our flat too much. _Is it a client?_

Sherlock must have guessed I was still around and in the kitchen, for he doesn't hesitate to come to me at once through the side door. 'John, you've met Toby before', he introduces, uncharacteristically polite, brimming with excitement.

'Toby?' I puzzle blankly for a moment.

From behind him a beautiful dog with a patient demeanour shows up. He whines for a moment as he fixes those dark round eyes on me, and recognising me, tilts his head sideways, one long ear dangling loose attentively and a long thread of drool extending from his jaw.

'Right. Toby', I say, stiffly. And then to Sherlock, who remains expectant: 'We've met. This is Craig's dog. This is the dog you really like, for some reason.'

Sherlock unites his hands behind his back and explains: 'He's loyal and obstinate, what is there not to like?'

'You say he's our guest', I recall, trying to figure out the shy, socially awkward genius without confronting him.

'Toby's staying here for the next couple of days, John. It's fine, really, you won't have to give up your room, like you did for that client last month. Toby has already agreed to sleep on a blanket on my armchair.'

'On _your_ armchair?' Feels like I magically dodged a bullet, somehow.

'John, we both know the springs on your armchair are mostly broken. It'd be ill-advised to use it as a bed for long periods of time.'

'But it's okay for me to sit on it for long periods of time?' I cross my arms in front of me.

'Apparently so. You won't let me get rid of it, John.'

'Damn right I don't! It's my chair! Toby can have yours', I demand angrily and turn away. I can still sense Sherlock and Toby looking at each other, both tilting their heads sideways.

 _ **.**_

I wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in cold sweat, rising desperately from my bed, heart thumping loudly on my chest, reverberating in my ears, feeling that an attack is imminent, that I'm going to die a painful, horrible death and desecration will follow and, worse of all, Sherlock will find m, and he'll never be the same again...

My silent sobs mingle with the crystalline thread of melody that flutters through Baker Street's silence. The violin music is sorrowful but peaceful, and I cling to it in the secret hope that it can rid me from the oppressive terror and I can keep only the mournful sorrow that is forever a part of me.

 _ **.**_

As I come downstairs for breakfast, Sherlock is already there. I'm not really surprised to see him wrapped up in his dressing gown, sat at the kitchen table, working at my laptop. I notice the dark circles under his eyes and wonder if he's even gone to bed or just stayed up attempting to catch the killer with his mind.

'Don't fuss, John, I'm good for at least another 36 hours before I need to sleep.'

I frown; the doctor in me wanting to give him a proper telling off, but that would be highly hypocritical, given the amount of hours I actually slept myself.

Before I know it, there's an unexpected warm wet lick across my clenched hand. Immediately I relax my hand and look down at the expectant and arm puppy eyes of Toby. I smile briefly. 'Hm. Hi, Toby, good morning', I say politely, caught off-guard. I'm not usually _licked_ early in the mornings.

Sherlock murmurs from his all-consuming study of the laptop screen: 'Toby wants to have his ears scratched and some breakfast, John. I want some breakfast too.'

'But not to have your ears scratched, I take it.' _Sarcasm._

Sherlock raises innocent blue eyes over the laptop. I'm already shaking my head. 'Did you get some dog food?' I ask. He signals the higher cupboards with a flick of his eyes. I sigh and go collect it, fighting the urge to feed them both from the same tin.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: I'm at bit lost at sea on this one, but I_ _sail_ _on_ _. Hopefully this one ties a few of the last chapters together. (Sorry, told you I'm not a writer.)_ _-csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

Four victims have already experienced the worst at the periodic table killer's hands. Four innocent victims that Sherlock Holmes and I couldn't keep from harm. Four people in the killer's wicked call for someone as brilliant as Sherlock to come out and try to stop him. Which we did, conscious of the danger we were in. We followed carefully planted leads that led us to a disused mental facility. Unfortunately, we arrived too late and were unable to prevent the worst from happening while we were already on site. Catching this fiend before he left the scene was also a failure, one that I take full responsibility for.

Like many times in life, we cannot dwell on our failures or keep ourselves from the action long enough to lick our wounded prides. The game goes on regardless, picking up the pace.

That is why, not even 24 hours after the last victim was discovered by Sherlock, I find myself musing at my mad friend – madder than ever – as he walks in short steps, circles, swoops on the floor and rises up in swift movements all over our cluttered kitchen. No one has removed Molly's knitted (anatomically correct) human organs; they are still laid out according to the killer customary crime scene decor. Sherlock walks about in such mad scenario which sharp, short gestures and incoherent mumblings that I'm not quite sure they are in English anymore.

'Sherlock?' I call him out, worriedly. _I just left to have a shower, I wasn't gone long._ He's gone from functionally adjusted to rogue madness in record time – even for Sherlock standards.

'John!' he recognises me in the same rushed, jittery fashion, and for once my throat constricts and my stomach sinks. Is he _on something?_ As if immediately reading my mind just by glancing at my expression, he stills himself and huffs, indignantly. 'I'm not high, John. Well, not what you'd call high. Solving this case might raise my levels of endorphins considerably, but I assure you that an all natural process.'

'I'm sorry', I mutter. I shouldn't have doubted him, not even for a second.

'The real question', Sherlock corrects me, both sharp and feral as he steps towards me briskly, 'is why am I not high, what has kept me from seeking release in temptation, John.'

'Me', I recognise, eyes stuck on his scintillating blue ones, I couldn't turn my face away if I tried. My voice comes out raw and honest. Like a modest hero, he just nods quietly. And finally he adds, for reason sake alone: 'I'll keep strong as long as you keep yourself strong, John. That's our pact.'

I smirk bitterly. 'I can't quite make promises, Sherlock. It's not like I can keep myself from being triggered.'

He shrugs, the meaning of equal circumstances behind his shrug is implicit.

'It's a physiological reaction, Sherlock, there's absolutely no gain for me whatsoever!' I raise my voice, indignant. _He might enjoy his altered conscious state, I don't._

He shakes his head dismissively, turns around and returns to his mutterings and mindless pacing.

 _Is that French?_

'Sherlock, wow... wait. What is going on? Are you speaking in tongues now?'

He waves his hand dismissively. 'I need a new perspective on how I see the case, John. I'll try going beyond the constraints of a language as well. I _need_ to find the next location before he commits another crime.'

From Sherlock's armchair in the living room there comes a low howl. _Toby._ I had forgotten the dog. He's fit in seamlessly in our quotidian.

Sherlock's infatuation with the dog seems to be mutual. He has adopted Sherlock and seeks to be near his scent at all times. His favourite corner of Baker Street appears to be Sherlock's chair. Which is just fine, given the agitated state in which Sherlock is currently in. He won't be sitting down by the fireplace anytime soon.

'Sherlock, can I help?' I ask of him, in a quiet voice. I know I've been more of a distraction than assistance since this case has started.

Something in my voice magically stops Sherlock in his tracks once again. Only this time the tension has instantly rolled off his thin frame and it's as if he's suddenly more tranquil, enjoying the adrenaline rush from his quest to the truth. Because I asked if I could help? Since she he's he so attuned to politeness (especially given that he's not so keen on following it himself)?

 _Sherlock's been anxious to see me come out of my shell, as a sign that the John he knows so well is still around._

My mad detective friend faces me with unexpected admiration and gulps down his haste to gently wave his hand to the nearest kitchen chair. 'Of course, John.'

It seems that he was itching to have me invite myself over to solve the case with him, all the while I was desperate to step away in order to preserve his genius from the fluctuations in my mental state. _I won't stand to be hindrance to Sherlock, an obstacle in his way to solving his beloved cases, the one thing that brings him so much pure joy._

 _In my hopes of not distracting Sherlock I raised the background noise to his deductions too high, and became all consuming._ He's worried about me. That's why he brought Toby over. He's alert, trying to figure out how many times I elapse from reality without his knowledge. He can't accurately tell my abstractions apart from the real flashbacks, my silences from the memories flashing in my mind on a continuous loop of terror. He's afraid he alone is not enough to monitor me as much as I may require, because he wants to protect me from the past, from the chaos that rules my mind in those desperate re-enactments, he feels he needs to monitor me constantly. Toby is a dog, and dogs are more perceptive to the minute tells that a person will experience during their mood fluctuations. If Toby can give off the alarm, then Sherlock can rest easier and shift his full attention to the horrific killer that is terrifying the more vulnerable layers of London.

'Did the killer alter his method on this last killing, Sherlock?' I ask aloud, picking at the yarn load over the kitchen table.

'Yes. He used power tools. That bought him the time he needed to get away.'

I frown and look up. 'I thought you said he took pleasure in his doings. That doesn't sound like the sort of thing he'd want to do. Unless he's now taking more pleasure out of taunting you than out of gutting his victims.'

'The game has escalated. No, more than that, it's morphing. His ordinary victims are no longer enough. He fantasises with one particular victim, and he's dutifully going along the pecking order to get there. Only three more to go.'

I shiver, uncontrollably. 'You mean that he'll kill three more people and then he'll go after you.'

'Of course. After all he's still spelling out his taunt.'

'And we should be happy you have such a long name?' I ask, bewildered.

'The next three victims might not think of it that way, John', Sherlock counters me, pondered.

I could smack the witty genius, for being such a daredevil in his approach to being the object of a blood-lusted killer's desire.

Before I can call him out on his cockiness, both Sherlock and I are surprised by Mrs Hudson's appearance at the living room door, calling us out with her customary _Yoo-hoo!_ We were so absorbed that we didn't hear her coming up the stairs.

Sherlock glances upwards to the closest threat of red yarn, hanging in suspension just inches above his eyebrows, and immediately he opens his eyes wide. He rushes to meet our sweet old landlady in the living room – and to keep her from the macabre installation in the kitchen.

'Mrs Hudson, you're back! How was ...ugh... Scarborough?'

'It was Blackpool, Sherlock dear, and it was lovely. Mrs Turner has quite an eye for—'

'Lovely, just lovely', Sherlock hurries her along, not even listening to a word she's saying. 'You must tell John all about it, I'm sure he'll love to hear it.'

She gently extracts herself from his firm grip and walks back towards the mantle, Sherlock following suit. 'Oh, how dusty you've let this place become, Sherlock. You know I care about you, and John too, but I can't always be the one dusting and cleaning the flat. I have a life of my own too, you know?'

'Yes, of course', Sherlock interrupts at once. 'You are absolutely right, Mrs Hudson, John will dust and clean.'

'Oi!' I protest at once, amused. That's when I realise my mistake. Mrs Hudson was already on the process of being escorted out by Sherlock. Now she instinctively looks my way and sees the state of the kitchen.

'Oh, John, you're there, dear! How's— _What on earth have you two done to my kitchen, young men?_ ' she directs her fury at us immediately as she sees the state of the small space.

I have the decency to blush. Sherlock tries the easy way out. 'It's for a case, Mrs H.'

'I heard enough of that already, and I don't fall for it anymore!' She faces him with the hellfire of a scorched landlady. 'You are to clean all of that, do you hear me, Sherlock?'

He nods, only too compliant. 'It shall be done by the end of the week', he bargains. Miraculously she accepts, even if in slight disbelief. She turns around and grumps on her way out, as he's leading her away firmly but kindly: 'You better not mess with the poor doctor's jumpers like that anymore, Sherlock...' _She thinks Sherlock has sacrificed one of my jumpers._ Or even several, given the amount of yarn. She assumed the mischief as the most natural thing in the world. 'One of these days, Sherlock, he'll give you a piece of his mind, and John's got a gun too.'

Sherlock replies, already on the landing: 'I also have got a gun.'

'Yes, but yours is for show, isn't it? Big, bulky and used with high calibre bullets, it's not really practical at all. He'd shoot you before you could draw yours, deary.'

I hear no reply to Mrs Hudson's god-sent common sense. I doubt he'd let anyone else in London get away with what she's just told him.

As Sherlock returns to the kitchen feigning an over-tested patience, I'm trying to disguise a well-humoured smile. Sherlock's attempt at looking hurt by the landlady's words die at the sight of my momentary high spirits. He actually smiles himself, softly; shyly.

'Now, where were we, John?' he asks quietly, as we try to resume deducing the killer's mind.

 _ **.**_

'Oxygen', I repeat, frowning. 'An oxygen production plant?'

'Too contrived, John.'

'Ugh... Oh, I know; a scuba diver's tank! We can check deep sea diving stores in London!'

'It's not filled with pure oxygen, but an approximation of air. John, you're a doctor you know that 100% oxygen under water would hardly be advisable.'

I roll my eyes. 'I'm doing my best here, Sherlock... Anyway, how come I'm the one giving out guesses and you just stand there scoffing at them?'

'Because Toby wants it that way', he is cheeky enough to tell me. Right now we are both sitting by the fireplace. Sherlock is back at his armchair, but Toby, not content with having his place taken, has climbed over to his lap and settled for a nap. Sherlock didn't even protest – he really seems to love dogs, or just Toby – and he mechanically has taken long fingers to scratch the dog behind his ear. Toby groans delighted in his sleep, from time to time.

'You want to keep my mind busy, that's all', I protest half-heartedly.

'Idle minds are the devil's playground.'

'What—? No, Sherlock, that's not how that goes and—you know what? Just never mind.' I sigh and carry on: 'A hospital, or an operating theatre.'

Sherlock brushes the idea away. 'They symbolise the fight for life, whereas our killer is fixated with death. That would never do, John.'

'Hm... A forest?'

'What? Sherwood forest again?'

'No, like in trees. Trees give out oxygen, right?'

'That is only photosynthesis. They also produce carbon dioxide during the night, John.'

I nod, defeated, but smirk. 'A forest during the day?' I joke. He smiles, mostly to keep me motivated. He really seems to believe I can foresee the choices of a serial killer better than he can. If Sherlock's faith in my help wasn't so endearing when in such blatant display, then I'd might get upset that he chose me. Literally, he thinks I can put myself in a serial killer's shoes and tell Sherlock what the killer will come up with next. _It's not awkward in the slightest that you think I've got the mind of a killer, Sherlock!_

'Hm... It's oxygen, Sherlock. So... he's going to gas his next victim?'

'Too easy, not enough flair, John! Think like you're building a masterpiece, a legacy.'

I shiver, uncomfortable. _A legacy of death._

From Sherlock's lap, Toby's ears prick up. At once the detective's hand stills on the dog's fur.

'Mrs Hudson believes the mantle is too dusty, John', he tries to divert my efforts.

'Yeah...' I mutter, sarcastic. _Like he thinks he can get me to do the spring cleaning that easily..._

 _ **.**_

Coming back to work was both a blessed break from the dark aspects of the case and a source of constant worry. As I left Baker Street to come do my first shift back at the surgery I took the underground. Plenty of time to put all my contacts into place. DI Lestrade has agreed to drop by 221B and not leave the flat till my return. He'll protect Sherlock from the ground. Mycroft Holmes reluctantly took my call and coldly assured me that 221B was already under the highest level of threat surveillance the country has to offer. He'll monitor the property from above through his countless security cameras, undercover black cars and super agents on the field. Lastly, I phoned Mrs Hudson and had some hurried words with the sweet old lady. If she believes Sherlock is under any danger she's sure to give the bad guys a piece of her mind as well – and underestimating our landlady is a mistake no criminal to date has dared to repeat.

With all the protection I could think of arranging for Sherlock in place, I'm still no less distracted and anxious as I seat at my desk, organising and shuffling the paperwork in my return to practise.

Did I leave any route unprotected; a bathroom window unlocked (its sill is electrified, with a high enough voltage to knock out a cow), are the rooftop sides coated with enough anti-climb paint (Sherlock and I have made the mistake of choosing the wrong route and slid back down, terribly confused), when has Sherlock tested the bullet proof windows resistance with my gun the last time (not a very advisable activity indoors, the bullets ricocheted back and narrowly missed us; but then again the bullet proof glass was Mrs Hudson's idea and she didn't tell us so to teach Sherlock a clever lesson about destroying rented property – didn't stick long with him, though)?

The desk phone blares in the silent corner office, startling me. I look over to the caller ID and it comes up as one of the surgery's suppliers of canisters. _Great, here I am doing the reception's work again._ I know there are budget cuts in the NHS, but this is starting to become ridiculous...

'Doctor Watson here, how may I help?' I take the call, politely.

 _"Hello, doctor Watson. You may want to keep quite still. I hear struggling only makes the process more painful."_

'Excuse me? What process?' I ask, tensing up and reaching towards the gun hidden on the drawer. I never get to it, as a damp cloth comes with an iron clasp over my mouth and nose from behind me. _Never saw it coming, too tired and preoccupied, my defences were down._ I struggle, of course I do – I'll always fight, as the inebriating vapours are already suffocating me. I try not to breathe them in, but it's hopeless to fight my autonomic response, my body is struggling desperately for air, starved for air – and it's only as I'm losing consciousness that I make the obvious link—

 _Oxygen._

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: Slightly smaller than of late, plenty of plot twist. -csf_

* * *

 _ **. oxygen .**_

'You've messed with the wrong detective', I say firmly, clamping down on another bout of nausea. 'He'll come round and get you', I elaborate, full of certainty. Not faith, no, I'm beyond faith in my mad friend. Trust is now but a sure thing, something as predictable and stable that I can as sure as the sun raising every morning. 'He'll find you and then you'll pay for your killings. You wanted Sherlock Holmes? Well, you are about to get your wish, and it won't be pretty. You've messed with the wrong soldier. You messed with one of the few people you really shouldn't have. You'd have had better luck messing with royalty or celebrities. But with me? Sherlock's sure to come through that door at any second. Or the one next to it. Are there really two doors or am I seeing double? I really can't tell. I wish you'd tell me. I'm too nauseous to think it through...'

I'm not having a peachy time coming off this chemical hangover. Whatever was used to knock me out has made me really nauseous. And that made me really pissed off. And now I'm taking it out on this stupid killer that thinks he's some big shot because he's trying to mess with Sherlock.

Not even sure he's listening. I suspect so. I mean, why put me in a secure room with no windows, one or two doors (still working on figuring that out) and no one around? He's taken, at least, the precaution of tying me up to a cold steel medical stretcher. I feel less neglected when faced with such careful foresight. As to being ignored, that's the rub; I'm not really convinced of it. I think I'm being watched by a corner cctv camera, high on the ceiling. It explains why the ceiling of the derelict facility has got so many corner spider webs but the camera is fairly clean and maintained.

The killer could be keeping watch of his hostage, or this could be another attempt at psychological warfare, where I'm being recorded to send Sherlock the video. The similarities with the last macabre home video shot by the killer will be striking.

Hence my upbeat rambling. I want Sherlock to know I'm okay, he shouldn't worry about me. He needs to focus on catching this pervert. I can wait. I know Sherlock always comes, sooner or later. And if only a delusional narcissistic killer is watching my talk show, well, that's fine, I'll just annoy the hell out of him... _I'll be so proud if he presses the Mute button._

 _ **.**_

Being neglected for attention in hostile ground can only keep your adrenaline high for so long. Eventually even a kidnapped victim is bound to get genuinely _bored_ and settle down to a nonproductive fit of dozing off.

 _Maybe it's Sherlock's fault, for being so late at my heroic rescue._ Sherlock is ever the reluctant hero.

I'm brought back to the edge of my seat (metaphorically speaking, for I'm still bound to the disused cold stretcher) by a sharp repetitive sound that disturbs me deeply. Sounds like a machine gun, discharging continuously at a distance, and yet _something is off_. I've been to the war, I know how to identify the make and model of many personal weapons by the sound they produce, more than I probably should as a doctor. And this _is off_. Sounds more like a bad gangsters flick on loud volume speakers than the real thing. Also, I can't hear what is supposedly being shot at. No plaster flacking off the wall, no human groan as pain rips through them.

Whatever this mockery is meant to be, I can tell this is not my best friend's heroic step up to the stage.

Next thing I know the ceiling lights start flickering. _And then I know._ This is a set up. This is meant to trigger me. Just before Sherlock comes to my rescue. Is this meant to have me make a fool of myself in front of my friend, or am I to mistake Sherlock for an insurgent from the war, or even some other horrible fate is being bestowed on me?

 _Little does this lurid killer know that Sherlock is safe ground. That Sherlock is the only one who can settle me when I course dangerous lands of the past, in my mind._

The thought of Sherlock can appease me, can turn 221B into a home (such as it never was in his absence).

I'll play along, I decide with a gut twist. It's a dangerous game for someone who gets triggered so easily these days, but if I focus on my mission I should pull through, I decide, chin up in defiance.

Ignoring the nagging trembling gripping at my left hand already, I focus on the thrill of catching this serial killer, of doing my faithful share in the Baker Street's duo. If I can keep my mind sharp on this valorous mission then perhaps this perfidious man has not seen the last of us yet.

 _ **.**_

The late session at the theatre is presented for my own benefit alone - _shouldn't I be flattered, as flattered as Sherlock gets for being the sole attention focus of a serial killer?_ \- and it extends seemingly indefinitely. Even if I can keep myself under tight control for now, using memories of Sherlock's violin or Mrs Hudson's tea and biscuits, it still cannot stop the heartache and emotional pain from reliving the daunting feelings of deep sadness, isolation and anger I brought back from the war. There's also a whispered mist of sorrow, as if blown in from a nonexistent open window, born of compassion for all the fellow victims of the war, from all sides of combat, I have met.

But I carry that devastation for a long time; honestly I think I always will. So that cannot haunt me any more than customary. _It has long become a part of me._

Suddenly, beneath all the relentless war sounds, I hear the only door to the room being cracked open. Then there's a suspended moment while I anxiously wait to see what might come up next.

Finally a man comes in. Rough manners, greasy overproduced appearance, devious smile. And we face each other in silence. Measuring each other out, like two true opponents.

 _ **.**_

Silently, methodically, pacing himself, the man stands behind my steel stretcher and professionally (or like someone with a good deal of hands-on experience) clicks off the brakes on its wheels and starts pushing me towards the door open ajar and the darkened corridor beyond.

It's creepy, and under the constant stimuli of the lights and sounds in an exuberant overproduction of war, the eeriness of it all sinks deep in my stomach, making me shiver. Luckily my natural, untamed reaction is disguised by the trepidation of rusty wheels on rundown floors.

'Captain Watson, I do hope you don't mind going out for a little ride. I have been enjoying myself and I'd much like to share my fun with you. I believe you might even enjoy it yourself.'

His mad convictions anger me at once.

'You know my name. That's one up on me', I lead my own conversation path, coldly.

I can just about grasp that he shrugs, as we reach the darkest portions of the corridor. 'Chandler. I thought you knew, captain.'

 _How would I know? I'm not Sherlock bloody Holmes!_

'I might not have known your name, but I expect a small part of the Metropolitan Police, half of Scotland Yard and all of the secret services do, and they're about to storm in through the door.'

The man behind me, from where I can't see him, chuckles lightly.

'Let them try. They are unimportant. I have a mission to finish and I need something from you too, captain Watson.'

 _My bloody organs?_ I gulp drily, and find no timely comeback.

That's when I realise I know these corridors, I've been here before. In fact, the Scotland Yard has probably just released this crime scene, about to be sanitised by some unfortunate cleaning crew. I'm in the disused mental facility, the property that contained the last crime scene. The serial killer, in his haste to get to the end of his mission, is not even trying to find new isolated locations for his doings. He might even be taunting the Yard, and Sherlock.

We turn a corner into a new room. I gasp at the sight of the slightly illuminated room where the colour red predominates and an unhealthy smell assures me this is no theatrical production, but the real thing.

I gulp, closing my eyes tight for a couple of seconds, desperate to find my ground again.

 _ **.**_

'Why are you showing me this? Why wasn't I your Oxygen victim?' I ask Chandler, both out of genuine confusion and wishing to gain time.

Like most serial killers Sherlock and I dealt with, this one enjoys attention and craves admiration for his hard work, his masterpiece. My stomach wants to revolt at the comprehension that my questioning of his motives and actions is playing right to this man's addiction, is stroking his inflated ego. But I must keep going, for a bigger, paramount reason.

Chandler answers nonchalantly: 'You were ever the intended victim for the chemical element oxygen, captain Watson. That would have ended our little game prematurely, can't you see?'

'You want to spell out "Sherlock". Yes, we gathered that much. Sherlock was even flattered, the git.'

Chandler tilts his head sideways as if my comeback had been wholly unexpected. At once I mentally screech to a halt. I've hit something big, something important. I trace back my inputs through the haze caused by the nausea and trauma. 'It was easy to figure out you were after the great Sherlock Holmes, with you practically spelling out the name of who you wanted - needed - to have investigating your work. Your archenemy, if you will.'

He smirks condescendingly. 'Don't be modest, John. I was never interested in Sherlock. I used that silly detective to get my target's attention, and my target has been you all along. Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers...' He smiles at me; a sick, depraved, deeply predatory smile of victory. 'You really don't recall having met me before?'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	22. Chapter 22

_A/N: Still not British (the accent is a major give away), a writer (in any language), or anything other than my boring, quiet self (or so I'm perceived). -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

'Why are you doing this?'

I'm the target of obsession of a serial killer. Finding it hard to wrap my mind around that piece of information. _Won't Sherlock be jealous of my good fortune?_

Sherlock should be _real proud_ of me. I've got _my own_ _archenemy_ now. A mastermind in serial killings, too. Turns out he was after me the whole time and Sherlock was collateral damage. _He'll be so pissed, he won't talk to me for weeks!_

I'll miss hearing the sound of Sherlock's voice, as he sulks at Baker Street.

Chandler throws his hands up in an exasperation pantomime to answer me. _Yet he doesn't refuse to engage with me. In this lopsided power dynamic I may be the kidnapped victim but he's spellbound by my every reaction. He craves attention, admiration, validity._ 'Why does a sculptor sculpt, or a musician play music? This is my gift, John, my talent to the world!'

'Murky waters, mate! Ain't art about meaning? No one can read your work's message other than your madness.' I shrug. _He likes blood and guts._ The butchers or a fishmonger trade would have suited him equally well from that perspective.

If he doesn't attempt to heal someone then he's looking for empathy with a member of another wrong profession.

'I'm a genius', Chandler's voice reverberates low, dangerous. As a right he's earned somewhere in his past.

'Take it from me; genius and madness often go hand in hand.' _I should know after so long at Sherlock's side._

'Don't underestimate yourself, John. I have chosen you for your ability to handle my work.'

I blink. 'What do you mean?'

'You've seen my work before London. _You've witnessed my collection of trophies in the Sand_.' He waves a magnanimous hand around to refer to the macabre display of fresh body parts. Before I can steal myself I take in the terrible scenario, with a gut twist.

 _I can hear loud footsteps in standard army boots, it's rhythmic succession drowning out the sound of fast spinning helicopter blades cutting through the thick air and sand raised from the tired ground. We arrive at last, hurried to our new home, about to relieve another platoon of fusiliers after their long tour in the Helmand province. We are as fresh and green as they were, eager to set the rule of the land and establish continued peace in the territory. As I drop from the helicopter to the ground with my own heavy boots hitting the muffling sand, the first shout reaches my ears. Shouts, screams, chaos ensues. Insurgents breeching the compound. My baptism of fire not waiting for me to settle down my canvas bag._

I shake my head. _It was a flashback._ Another one about the same place, the same tour. Chandler's theatrics getting to me. My hands are shaking against the restraints that bound me to this medical stretcher. _Need to get a grip on myself urgently._

'You were in Afghanistan', I say, somewhere between a question and a statement. 'My men used to call the place The Sand, there was always so much of it.'

He nods, eagerly. 'I was there, John. You may not have seen me, but you've stumbled upon my work one day. Assumed it was done in desperation or self-protection by the locals. You even covered for them, captain Watson. If they had talked I wouldn't be here today.'

My flashback, returning from the first crime scene, when momentarily alone in Baker Street. Those weren't random memories overpowering my life of today. Somewhere deep inside my weary mind I recognised the similarities. I must have known it was done by a fellow soldier, buried in the past with my darkest memories, I must have been barely aware that it was Chandler all along. Only it was too horrible, the memorised details my mind was supplying, and I didn't want to delve into those old memories, so I shunt them, push them back to the depths of myself. I thought I was torturing myself, mingling the horrible details of a modern crime scene with the disturbing memories of the past. In fact, I was reliving a traumatic experience I had long repressed. The similarities subconsciously triggering my flashbacks potently.

I could have told Sherlock I've seen this killer's work before, but at the time I was a soldier, and never a detective. I didn't understand the family at the outskirts of the crime scene back in Helmand were but spectators of this killer, that evolved from his crude early work to today's clues riddled artwork killings.

I might even have interrupted the killer, thus saving their lives. And that day Chandler created a new fixation that got attached with his murderous sprees. He decided to find me out, and bring me to his crime scenes. Lure me in with his work, entice me to–

– _join him?_

 _That will never happen._

Not for the first time, I wished Sherlock could have been there with me in my past. What a difference it'd have made in my life, and now also in innocent lives.

Sherlock would have seen a crime scene where I saw the devastation of war.

'Why?' I ask the simplest of questions; the one that often entails the most complex answers.

'Because in The Sand I wouldn't be caught. It took me longer to perfect my method here, with Scotland Yard's trained investigators. Even discarding the society's unwanted still they got interested, followed me, nearly caught me a couple of times. And then, when I found my rhythm it so happened I also found you. The sidekick of an amateur detective! It couldn't be more exciting, really. Slowly I got your attention, and here we are!'

I nod, tantalised by this man's conviction.

'But first I need to get rid of your pesky saviours, John. They don't know you like I do. I know you want this. They want to take you away, but this – us – was meant to be.'

 _ **.**_

 _Frail hands try to hold together what vicious intentions torn apart, but I know I'm too late, to powerless, I'm one against a tide of evil. Late at night I relive those memories, over and over again, trying to make sense of them. I know I'm strong, I know I'm enough, but I always recoil and close my eyes tight like a scared child. Sometimes I'm blessed to be able to stay like this till the new day breaks and the morning light floods in, chasing away the shadows. Some other times I'm saved out of numbed terror by an adrenaline rush, as there's an imminent attack on our unit, and I hold on to danger like a lifeline._

A brisk gesture startles me as the psychotic killer is checking the integrity of the restraints keeping me tied up. I don't want to give in, but I know I'm in deep trouble. This time round I'm really scared of one of the criminals Sherlock and I put away for a hobby. If only Sherlock could hurry up...

Before Chandler leaves, he still asks me, derisively: 'Your detective friend really didn't realise that all the victims were killed next to the homes of former military personnel you served with?'

The bunker-like door bangs ominously with metal reverberation against the door frame.

I blink. What a major flaw in our investigation! Then again, the feeble lead was so flimsy, except in the killer's mind, where it shone bright red.

'No', I answer out loud, only to myself. Me and my men didn't really keep in touch after Afghanistan, all haunted in our own ways, hoping to fit back in crowds of functional strangers, thrust back into a world that no longer was a game of life and death, a rush of adrenaline, a fight for survival. This brave new world was average, much more peaceful and uneventful (no IEDs going off at any second) and so much harder for a former soldier to fit in. We had no purpose, no pull, no sense of belonging. We all felt like _normalcy_ was drowning us, all the while we were told to appreciate our luck, that we were safe now. We were safe, alright, we just didn't fit in. There was no place for us in the normal world anymore. Some of us turned to addictions, others to high risk jobs, or thrill seeking activities and dangerous companies, as we tried making sense of what was so desirable and expected for everyone else. I found an outlet for the dangerous energy in me by Sherlock's side in the battles of London. _Perhaps I had the most luck out of everyone._ Instead of reaching out to help them, I was fighting hard battles to keep afloat myself, so I kept my distance. _How could I rescue others when I was drowning myself?_

I think most of us contributed to the once tight, cohesive military unity breaking apart. Contact was kept only with a few insistent men from the old Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and I willingly lost contact with most fellow soldiers. And even with those, former experiences got hushed as bad omens to discuss out in the open. We'd all play tough. Drink a few pints, curse the favourite football team at the last game, act normal.

I regret the mutism, sure I do, but I was desperately rebuilding my own life. I had hardly enough energy to heal and fight a different battle, and none to give out to those others who needed it from me.

I lower my head in silent shame. No, I didn't keep in touch, and I thought it was better for everyone like that. If I'm to be honest, I didn't want them to see the mess I felt I was for fear that it would discourage them.

I may have been wrong. I should have shown them it's human to feel pain, and that it comes in all shapes and sizes. It might have even been good to me, a lesson in humility and modesty, as I realised I am as painfully human as the rest of us. I was proud, as I held on to that image of the strong soldier as the only dignity and grace I had left, buried deep inside me.

It's too late to come clean now.

Only Sherlock might understand, but even to my best mate I'm reluctant to acknowledge the truths inside.

 _ **.**_

'Is Sherlock your last victim?' I ask, holding back on the shiver down my spine. Chandler has been absent for a while, but has returned now, more paranoid, carrying his gun as an extension of his hand, tense as he keeps looking all around him in the familiar room with no windows or other doors. 'Or was it just an elaborate rouse to get my attention?'

He smiles enigmatically, quieting down slightly as he ponders me. _Weirdly enough, in that sense he reminds me of Sherlock_. 'I heard he once had a rough patch in his life. Wouldn't make him all that different from my regular victims, would he? But no, John, Sherlock Holmes is not my last piece of art. _You are_.'

 _Right_. And yet, it's still better – in some strange deep level – for me; I would never stand to be the reason Sherlock got hurt, or worst. As my best mate is desperately trying to find me, I'd hate that my rescue would turn out to be how this killer got him.

'But your friend might be a welcomed addition to the shortlist', Chandler adds timely, scrutinizing my reaction. _If he wanted to throw me off balance, he's succeeding._

'Sherlock is cleverer than that. He won't let himself get caught.'

Chandler's smile turns wicked. 'I've glanced at your blog. He always comes to your rescue, doesn't he?'

'Not always', I lie.

'He will today, because he's fixated on me.'

I shiver again, as I realise Chandler is right.

'Who's your next victim? How do you intend to infuse the chemical element theme next?'

'Carbon? Can't you guess?' His tone of voice mockingly implies pity because I can't see the world in the same manner as his.

 _I hope I never will._

'Carbon is the common element present in most living creatures', I bait him, like I'd do for Sherlock.

'Think Death, not Life, John.'

'Ashes.'

'Yes, much better. I see why that detective keeps you around.'

I smirk. 'Honestly, it's very much the other way round', I fake my bravado.

'A fire, John. It also helps me get rid of this building, I've grown rather tired of this location by now.'

'And Potassium, what's that about?' I persist on drilling jim for information.

'Highly reactive group one metal. I want to have a grand finale. Can you really blame me?'

He's a psychopathic killer with a grandiose personality. _Should have seen it coming._

'Enjoy while it lasts', I recommend. 'I'm getting out of here on my own two feet; you're not.'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N: Last one for this story, sorry it's probably a bit long. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

Sherlock comes, at last. _He always comes._

I smile raggedly at my best friend, the one sure thing in this changeable world I seem to be able to count on when all other hopes fail. _Knew he'd come._ I just knew it. That certainty was as basal to me as the last remnant strengths I hold onto, as I try to keep myself from falling to the deep pit of despair and swirling memories that haunt me when I lower my guard.

 _As long as I have Sherlock by my side I know I'm fighting a worthwhile battle._

My mad – and late – friend almost imperceptibly stops at the door, shocked, as he takes in the overwhelming scenario. In fact, I don't think he pays enough attention to the gruesome crime scene around us, at least not as much as he scrutinises every single bruise in me, every smudged stain on my clothes, every pained wrinkle on my face. He's only ever worried about me. _Am I alright, have I been hurt?_ There are all these expressive questions flashing across his usually cold, distant demeanour. Eagerly demanding an answer, truthful and comprehensive, he marches forward towards me, facing his deep settled fears, and its silent answers he's still reading off of me.

'John, for God's sake...'

I smile, more comfortably now. His frazzled state a verbalisation of how I'm feeling inside. Feels like Sherlock is here, reading me, and ready to share my load.

'I'm alright. Wasn't hurt. He wants to save me for last. But Sherlock...' I need to warn him, he too is in danger. He must know, he must take care.

'What do you mean, "save you for last"? John, answer me!' he bellows and instinctively I shrink away. Might be because I'm still too sensitive, having been triggered so recently. I know it's not because I fear my friend in any way, but Sherlock's expression immediately transforms to shame and guilt, as he tries to extent a tentative hand my way. I shy away, too ashamed to let him try my response. He removes his hand as if he'd just been scalded by boiling water.

'I'm his obsession, Sherlock. Not you. He's told me so. I'm sorry, I guess you're disappointed.'

He immobilises himself in utter disbelief and stays that way for some unhealthy seconds that drag by us, way too long, and I try to reach out to him myself. 'Sherlock' I call him, gently, as I touch his forearm.

He springs back to life, as if my touch could have called him back.

'Don't say that', he asks me, softly nonetheless, and refuses to elaborate.

I think he's just realised how hard this has been for me while Sherlock was the suspected target of the killer's obsession.

'He's in a state, Sherlock, where he'll attack and kill anyone that stands in his way. You mustn't let your guard down. To hurt me, he'd hurt you in front of my eyes to be sure to get to me.'

Sherlock shrugs. 'That won't happen.' _Why waste time worrying about something that will not happen?_

'Sherlock... Now is not the time to play brave.'

'No', he seemingly agrees with me. 'How about after we hunt him down?' he adds, in all seriousness.

I shiver, out of exhaustion, my strengths just about depleted. 'It might be all up to you, Sherlock. I'd only slow you down.'

'Nonsense', he won't have me being sensible. He unties me from my cold stretcher, all my muscles cramped and locked in place by now. He seems to foresee how I must feel for immediately he's supporting my weight, leading me away from what felt like the bottom half of my coffin.

Together we walk in unison footsteps towards the corridor, escaping the mad scene that has taken me to the edge.

'Where did he go?' I mutter under my breath. A new energy emerging inside me. I want, desperately, to get this over with, end this nightmare, set my wrongs right as much as I can today.

'He's on a high, just having committed the killing of his victim number five...'

'Five this time', I interrupt, Sherlock waves it off dismissively.

'And he's sure you are under his control... Like you said, John, saving you for last... He must be rejoicing in his good fortune.'

I shake my head, convinced otherwise. 'Sherlock, he's desperate to reach a climax. He's been gaining speed every step of the way. He won't have a cooling off period anymore. He's out there hunting down his Carbon victim.'

Sherlock is listening to me attentively, granting me the care and attention I always try to give him, when he's the expert. _He knows I have a deeper connection with the serial killer now._

'Where to, John?' he asks me to take the lead, full of faith.

I take a deep breath, swallowing a bout of nausea and trying to steady my posture as we walk the corridors. My knees are about to buckle.

'Ashes. A fire. How can he set the building on fire the fastest?'

'Without the fire reaching you', he adds. 'He's saving you for last, remember?'

'So, the other side of the building, but where?' I murmur, desperate for answers. _Why can't I think like a killer who's fond of me?_

Sherlock takes a turn, pulling me along with him. I look up to my friend, questioningly. He won't deny me answers, the ones he deems so obvious, _not today_. 'The building is square shaped. We need to go to a higher window, facing inwards, and try to spot him out. There's hardly any point in searching blindly through empty corridors, John.'

'If we separated, it'd be twice as fast', I suggest.

He grabs me tighter. 'Not happening, John. We've already established that we are both valuable targets.'

Sherlock chooses one dark room out of instinct or inside knowledge, and pulls me along with him. The light breaks from the cracked dusty window to the floor in a sharp wide line of light, angled away from us. Outside the building the night is setting, making the small open courtyard among the building's walls the grimmer and dreary.

The night-time approaching also works in our favour, as on the opposite side of the building, close to the back part, we see very clearly the electric lights turned on inside one of the rooms, perhaps about fifty meters away. And in there, the agitated silhouette of Chandler.

'You can do it, John.'

 _What's he on about? Surely I couldn't!_

'I've seen you do it before, remember?' he adds, wisely.

'You never saw it happen, you deduced it. And your deduction quite surprised you', I might add.

'What keeps you from shooting your gun', and at this point he produces my Browning from his coat pocket, like nothing much, 'and I'll deduce away for the Yard without naming the true marksman? I daresay I've got some experience, John.'

'That's cold blooded murder, Sherlock.'

'Yes, the type he specialises in.'

'I don't want to be like him.'

'You could never be like him, John.'

'Are you sure?' _I'm not so sure, these days._

Sherlock watches me reverentially for a few instants. 'Yes', he declares in the honest truthfulness of a child. And before I can react to his faith in me he takes my gun back in his hand and with a flourish he levels it with our target, on the opposite side of the building.

He's ready to take on that burden for me, in yet another act of generous kindness.

I can't let him take the responsibility of what is mine to do.

Slowly, safely, I extricate the gun from his hand and own it in a firm grip. Its familiarity never ceases to amaze me. I marvel at how natural it feels, to hold a dangerous weapon in my hand. I've got tremendous power right here, to do good or evil, and yet I won't hesitate. I know where my principles stand. I know I'm ready to see this through, to carry yet another burden deep inside me, if only to better the world in some way. I aim the gun, my hand steady and firm now, and hold my breath to slow my heart rate. Sherlock's gaze, meanwhile, is stuck on me, and not my target, as if in silent support of my mission. I blink, wondering if I'm trying to get ready or just prolonging my agony. That's when the target turns briskly towards the windows that separate us. _He knows_. He's got wind of our presence there, I don't know how.

Chandler's anger is as perceptible as if it magnetically charged the air between us. Two polar opposites facing each other. Then he raises a gun of his own, aligning it perfectly with us.

I fire first, not without regret. This is another soul I could not save.

 _ **. carbon .**_

The walk round the building towards the opposite side is terse. I'm losing my strengths along the way and Sherlock is silently mulling over the contours of the murky case. We don't count this case as a victory; how could we? The killer has eluded us for so long, teased us mercilessly and, in the end, we barely pulled through. Perhaps we saved two lives, an unknown one and mine. Maybe even three, if Sherlock was to be collateral damage. Somehow it feels we didn't do enough, we didn't perform to the best of our abilities. Sherlock was too focused on me, and I was too desperate to keep away from a past that ultimately held the key to decipher the identity of the killer.

We stop at the entrance to the room with the one only tiny whole in the glass window, round and scratched at the edges, harmless looking.

Sherlock scoops me in his arms as he easily deduces I don't possess enough strength to hold myself up any longer. The wiry strength I found in myself minutes earlier was justified by my deep desire to set old wrongs right. My friend steadies me, without reticence, for he knows I need to see this through. This is my nemesis. I must face my deep entrenched memories and, once and for all, make sense of them.

Together we walk the distance to the lifeless form of the killer, sprawled out on the floor, harmless at last.

'Careful, John', Sherlock admonishes, in a warm tone, as my strengths fail me for an instant and he doubles the grip with which he's holding me up. I can tell he's worried about me, but he won't deny me this last face to face with the prolific serial killer we've just hunt down.

Finally I look away, I've just confirmed there is no pulse and my medical services are not required. I clear my throat awkwardly as I ponder the clean shot I managed to take despite the circumstances, and finally decide to engage Sherlock in conversation. 'You're just jealous I got my own "Moriarty" on this case, Sherlock.'

'No', he tells me, way too stern. 'I'm angry you faced him alone.'

Chuckles erupt from deep inside me; unbidden, genuine. _Pot, kettle, black._ My loose reaction to my friend's inability to tell the similarities with his own actions some time ago seems to trigger shock in the detective.

'John?' he asks, tentatively. Sounds nothing like the Sherlock I know so well. He sounds small, lost, vulnerable, as he sees me in discomfort.

'It's alright, Sherlock', I promise him, hoping to reassure him. 'I was wrong before, but hopefully I set some things right, now. As for the periodic table killer's victims...' _Well, I hold my share of responsibility for them._

'No', Sherlock suddenly proclaims, demanding, tense, imperative. 'You did nothing wrong, John.' He grasps me tighter, maybe he's getting tired, maybe he just hopes to better persuade me of his argument.

I smirk derisively. 'Not even you can read all my inner thoughts, Sherlock. You're just guessing now.'

He doesn't let on any sign that I got to him. 'I can tell when you are selflessly assigning blame to yourself', he tells me, eerily softly now. 'You seem to believe it's your job to save the world.'

'It's all our job. Doesn't make it any less my own responsibility.'

He gulps, and his eyes turn a shade lighter, perhaps he angled his head to the overhead lights minutely, fortuitously. I can see sadness, guilt and worry in his silvery eyes. Changing his grip on me a little bit, he helps me rest my dizzied head against his clavicle and, sheltering this tired soldier from the world, he keeps his gaze focused straight ahead to let me know:

'This has never been your fault, John. You mustn't believe the biased arguments of a psychopathic killer trying to get to you.'

I raise my chin, proudly. He feels me shift but never looks down, as if instinctively he knew the moment I'd be confronted with those all seeing eyes I'd back off in search of my lost privacy. I tell some creased fold of his dusty shirt (as I marvel seeing Sherlock looking less than one of his extremes; either downright scruffy or absolutely pristine), the same shirt that got dirtied up as he couldn't care less in a race to save me. 'He used the truth. It's alright, Sherlock. I can take it.' My voice only falters slightly on the last sentence I proclaim. My weakened body betraying me at last, as the adrenaline kick to my system dies down.

He angles his chin lower, softly, so that he almost touches my blond hair with his cheek. Feels more like the care one would give a child now, and I want to rebel against that protection, but find myself more and more lost for words. My breath is becoming ragged, raw, painfully tight in my ribcage. I realise I'm about to lose control, and fall apart before my best friend - but it doesn't really matter today, because in some weird way I've earned it, this is the culmination of a very long journey home.

Sherlock arms move to wrap around me, and I suspect it's no longer in fear that I may fall from his grasp.

'Just drop it, John', he whispers softly to my blond strands of hair touching his lips. 'Just let it all go', he repeats with a small sympathetic sigh.

 _ **.**_

A terrified scream shatters the exhausted silence in the derelict building. Sherlock and I face each other at once, looking for answers but only for a second. In the next moment we're rushing towards the door, trying to follow the direction of that first panicked scream, and the ones that follow. Definitely a woman's voice, abused at the high pitch that makes it so raw.

Chandler must have been preparing to attack his next victim. The one that would scorch down the old site. I pray silently that he hasn't started his work, that we're not too late over and over again...

Sherlock is close in my lead. Somehow I've got here first, to this darkened room where a woman is screaming. I think there may have been some residue of energy in me, saved for the most extreme circumstance. Saving a life called for all of my might, and I'm giving it all I have.

We find her huddled in a corner, staring at us with wide eyes full of terror. A dark bruise at the side of her forehead and dark patches under her eyes, and I can easily deduce she was brought in unconscious by Chandler. She must have just regained consciousness and panicked at the mess she was in.

She doesn't know the extent of the mess she was in, and for now she doesn't need to know how lucky she was to escape a violent doom.

She's safe. A small reward, considering; yet it lightens our spirits with joy.

Sherlock tries to quieten her down. Not that he's usually the one with the people skills, but I'm definitely the one with the medical skills so I take over the role of the doctor, tending to her shallow wounds. Eventually Sherlock gives up on speaking to the woman with the groggy speech, and accompanying thought process, and takes up his phone to call in DI Lestrade and the rest of the Yard. All the while the detective is positioned just over my shoulder, perhaps a tad too close, keeping a close eye on me and a timely lookout around us.

He's determined to keep me safe now he's got me back.

 _ **.**_

'This has been a long one, guys', Greg Lestrade comments with the roughened voice of many late nights in at work, trying to catch the fiend that Sherlock Holmes got to in the end. There's absolutely no resentment in Greg's voice, at least not now he's heard Sherlock's reluctant testimony ("can't we go home yet, John?"). I add my own little bits, in an exhausted, drawling voice that rivals with my friend's noted fatigue.

'So, tell me, Sherlock, how did you find John?'

The detective sends a determined evil look to the detective inspector, before assuring, modestly: 'Chandler had set up a new video link to a live feed with John at the staring role. Or maybe first it'd be the woman we found.'

'She's going to recover fully', I tell Greg. 'She's pretty shaken up, though.'

'Yeah', Greg adds with a visible shiver. 'Anyone would be.' And he looks over at Sherlock, seeking some unspoken understanding between them. Sherlock sees nothing and Greg gives up with an imperceptible shrug.

'John, are you sure you're up to this, mate?'

'He didn't get to do to me any of the things he planned to, Greg.'

'And you know that how?'

I find that a silly question, but answer nonetheless: 'Chandler wanted me to know. I wasn't only his hostage, I was his confidant.'

Greg's face falls. I know he's seeing me as his friend, not a witness when he looks at me like that.

'He's alright', Sherlock tells the DI, with a hint of pride. I nod, in agreement.

'John, you can't be okay.'

Sherlock came to rescue me. He's found me in a tough spot. He's rescued me in two different ways, and now he's willing to keep my dignity by staying silent over it all. Sherlock is the hero, the way I see it. Takes a best friend to be a true hero.

'John's always the reluctant hero, right, Sherlock?'

The taller man looks intrigued at the other one, and keeps to a quiet nod to the question.

 _ **. potassium .**_

The very next day I'm out and about again. It's not healthy to sit around and mull over the traumatic events.

It's also unhealthy to repress them, pretend they can't affect you.

I'm pondering how much I'm willing to change in order to embrace growth as I walk back to the pub's greasy, window side table, juggling my grip on several pints and one tonic water with lime.

My old army mates cheer my arrival by banging on the tabletop and stomping their feet on the ground. 'Watson, Watson!' a couple of them chant.

I smile lightly as I pass along every drink, but make sure to hold Sherlock's gaze as he receives his tonic water. Never in a million years would have I thought Sherlock would come with me.

Never would have I thought I'd be the one calling for this old times reunion. I'm finally trying to reconnect, hoping it's not too late. Some have showed up, some didn't (can't quite blame them), but I know now Sherlock is a presence I will never shake off.

Sherlock was, at first, quite curious. He was enthralled by the conversations, quietly sizing up my army buddies and very attentive to their shared stories of missions, deployments, our narrow misses with Death. He wasn't impolite, although he didn't quite make an effort to fit in, nor to blend in. Mostly his curiosity was directed exclusively at me, and I'm long past the point when I let that bother me.

As I return with the drinks, Sherlock's attitude has changed a lot. He's being a teenage brat, texting on his phone full time, ignoring everyone else. He takes his drink with a dismissive wave of his hand when I mention the pub patrons couldn't tell me if it was Venezuelan lime, or Mexican. I'm not about to let myself get fooled.

Sherlock doesn't leave, he chooses to be here. Sherlock keeps listening in, grunting softly with his eyes still glued to the phone, as I talk to my friends.

My mad friend is making sure I'm doing this important step in my recovery, and he'll share it with me if that's what it takes to keep me coming to these old reunions, but he's doing it with the same genuineness of always. _Sherlock is being Sherlock_ , and I'm glad - truly glad - he will never need to change for me.

 _ **.**_


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: Here's to the (slightly blurred) memory of Akako. -csf_

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 _ **.**_

The criminals were young, inexperienced, vicious, and came in pairs. Homozygous twins have been robbing at gun point another liquor store. It wouldn't have been a job for the Scotland Yard, nor would have it reached our knowledge, if the two youngsters hadn't recently escalated their thirst for violence. They have shot and killed both the cashier and a client last night. As they have been hitting the stores every night it has become an all-hands-on-deck matter at the Yard. Sherlock got wind of it because he's been hacking into the Yard's database _again_. One day he'll get into serious trouble for that. _Or maybe not._ His brother Mycroft will clear him of the charges to keep the family name off the papers.

And that's how we got here, Sherlock and I. Hidden away in a back alley, struggling to keep warm, awaiting the arrival of the criminal duo at the liquor store across the street, the one Sherlock believes will be the next one on the twins hit list.

'Sherlock, how much longer? I'm freezing my backside off!' I protest, moving about in small steps, trying to keep my blood flowing to my extremities. "Hypothermia" is a term that keeps popping in my mind.

'They are late', Sherlock comments drily. 'Perhaps England needs a law about lack of punctuality whilst committing a crime, John.'

'Yes, let's get your brother on that, shall we?' I agree, deviously.

I find Sherlock looking at me sideways, with that mixture of curiosity and awe hidden at the surface of a cold exterior, that is so typical in him. 'What?' I demand to know, tense.

He looks away. 'Just appreciating your loyalty, John.'

I blush slightly at the compliment, and tense as I wait for the second part, the one where he completely trashes me some other way. Before he can deliver the blow, I do it myself:

'Won't be much loyalty left if I actually freeze my backside off out here! Who in their right minds robs a store when the temperatures drop to the negatives?'

'Them', Sherlock answers to the letter, not understanding the concept of rhetoric. I'm about to explain when he silences me at once, by reaching out to my arm. I stop fidgeting and stand as still as I can, trying to hear what he hears. A car. The correct low engine rumbling, the extra wide tyre tracks on the tarmac, the same slight hiss to the breaks as it pulls over in front of the liquor store. Then two car doors banging, one right after the other. Footsteps; unhurried, controlled.

It would be less paperwork for DI Lestrade if we'd let these two rob another store and we'd catch them on the act, but given their violent behaviour we cannot afford to risk innocent lives. Sherlock is the first to bolt out of the alley, I'm rushing along as his faithful shadow.

The twins spot us and, recognising us, immediately draw the most accurate conclusions, so they rush back towards their car. Sherlock hurries for the driver, I take the one heading to the passenger's seat. Mine one is no sidekick as he's already aiming a badly kept, dirty gun my way. I grab his wrist to divert his aim with one hand, and with my other arm I elbow him right over the jugular. He chokes as he feels his air cut off momentarily, I twist the gun off his hands and wack him on the temple with its handle. He goes down without any further fight. _Not so daring, when he's not shooting unarmed people._ I turn to Sherlock who is already throwing his handcuffs my way. I grab them easily midair and clamp the killer's wrist to the rear view mirror of the car.

That's when I hear the gunshot, as two side windows of the car get shattered to bits, showering down to the tarmac. My blood freezes as I dare to look over and check up on Sherlock. He's still fighting his opponent, as if nothing had happened. I'm both relieved and angered. _You don't get to shoot Sherlock's way, you punk!_

I'm rushing over to assist but Sherlock clearly doesn't need me as his own killer twin is already hitting the ground. Sherlock lets me cuff him as well (Sherlock came prepared with two sets of cuffs, adequate precaution for twins) as I take my phone up and call Lestrade.

'Greg, yes. It was our store. We got them cuffed. Need backup... On your way? Great, mate! Celebrate with a couple of pints at the pub?' I offer shortly, when I notice Sherlock is already walking away. I suppose he's not feeling much up to joining us at the pub. He never does.

I hang up on Greg Lestrade, wondering just how mad is Sherlock that I brought up the pub. He's walking ahead of me, slowly, towards the same cold alley we hid in for the last couple of hours.

'Sherlock?' I call him, confused.

He leans with his back against the cold brick wall and lets himself slide down.

I already know something is terribly wrong as I kneel right by his side. He rolls the back of his head against the brick wall until he faces me straight on. In his pale blue eyes there's guilt and sadness, and just a hint of pain gathering at the wrinkles on the corners of his eyes.

'Sherlock...'

'Shoulder', he reports dutifully. At once I assault his coat, his jacket, his shirt - so many obnoxious layers - to get to see the wound. He protests, childishly: 'It's just a graze. The bullet grazed my armpit, towards the back.'

'Still dangerous', I mumble, hands shaking. 'Someone needs to take a look at it.'

'You're taking a look at it', he points out.

'I'm taking a look at it', I acknowledge, mechanically.

Finally I'm uncovering Sherlock's shoulder, and I feel the actual moment when the clogs in his brain turn, and he goes rigid and starts pushing me away.

'Sherlock, stop it! I need to see it.'

'No, I can fix it myself', he says, stubborn.

'You can hardly reach it, Sherlock', I reprimand him.

'I'm far more acrobatic than you give me credit for, John.'

I take out my phone again and dial 999. He stares back my concern, lips pursed, petulantly keeping me at bay with an imperious outstretched hand. I give out the precise location and the information they need to know on Sherlock, from general health and type of injury, to the blood type and allergies. Sherlock oversees it all in quiet stubbornness.

'Sherlock, let me see it', I start again once I hang up.

'No.'

'Sherlock, I need to pre-assess the wound. Your life could be in serious risk right now.'

'It's not. You are a minimally competent doctor.'

Something comes over me. Could be exhaustion. I wouldn't know it any better then I realise what I'm already doing. I'm strategically pinning Sherlock against the wall with my forearm over his clavicle and stripping his shirt off his shoulder. He doesn't fight back, as I'm not hurting him. Perhaps he's so quiet because he's stunned I crossed the line. He keeps still as I search for the wound, and only flinches minutely as my fingers brushed past it. _Not too deep, not too dangerous._ Stitches, antibiotics and rest are what he'll need now.

As I'm about to spew the diagnosis, my eyes find the oddest thing. In black ink, I find aligned, neat lettering in stark contrast with the unblemished skin nearby. The letters spell concise and precisely one word: J-O-H-N.

That's my name. In a tattoo, on Sherlock's skin. _Why?_

I brush my fingers over the inked name. The jet black of the ink is still so sharp on the pale skin. He shivers, uncontrolled. Possibly because he realises he's been caught, his secret is out on display and he holds no control over how I'll react about it. Perhaps just because the man who holds the world at an arm's length is not accustomed to being touched. And that makes it even more wondrous that Sherlock has willingly done this to himself. It's an act of self-harm with good intentions. It's painful and durable, serious and solemn.

'Why here?' I ask, in no more than a whisper. He answers in very much the same tone that accepts this can be a secret between the two of us.

'Seemed appropriate. You've always had my back, John, from day one.'

I smirk in complicity, but push him some more. I want honesty from Sherlock, not kind deflection.

'I got shot in the shoulder in Afghanistan.'

'Yes, you did.' He won't give me anything to grab onto.

'I've got some nasty scaring on my left shoulder, at the front', I remind him, while taking up my fingers to the thicker, numbed skin area on my shoulder, under the jacket and jumper. 'You've seen it before.'

'On occasion. You are a private man, John.'

'But this is just the exit wound. The bullet that damaged my shoulder came from behind me, you know that. I've got another, smaller, scar at the back of my shoulder. The entry wound. Right about where you've placed your tattoo, Sherlock.'

'I know', he acknowledges in a soft whisper. His eyes are heavy with emotion, but he won't allow them to settle for one single identifiable meaning that I can read of him.

'So, why there? To match my other scar, the one no one pays attention to?'

'Lots of undercover work, John. On occasion I could find myself in the need of changing to a clean shirt in front of some drug lord, for instance...'

'They could have seen it on your back just the same, if you weren't careful.'

He frowns on me at once like it's poor reasoning.

'I wouldn't turn my back on a drug lord.'

'If a drug lord wanted to see you shirtless it would be to check you for listening devices, transmitters. He'd want to see your back too.'

'It actually wasn't a _He_ ', Sherlock deflects.

' _She_ ', I play along. 'She saw my name. Wasn't she curious?'

'It's a fairly common name. Told her it was the name of a late sibling lost in infancy. No one asks more questions after that.'

I blink. He really thought it through, this hypothetic scenario full of brimming detail, or it really happened...

I look up in the cold damp alley, hoping to catch a sign of the ambulance's near arrival. Only silence greets me back. I don't even know if the criminal twins have woken up already, cuffed to their car in such a way that they can't get away.

'When did you get this done?' I ask Sherlock the next logical question.

He closes his eyes sharply as a momentary pain courses through him. My stomach contracts sympathetically, as if in doing that I could gladly share his load. I make sure to hold my friend as comfortably as possible.

'Is it not obvious, John?' Sherlock whispers at last. I bite down the need to tell Sherlock that where it comes to him, nothing is ever plain obvious to me.

'When you left us, and Baker Street, to close down Moriarty's web', I deduce in a quiet voice. 'I saw you shirtless a few times before, coming out of the shower or wrapped up in a bed sheet roaming the flat, and my name wasn't etched permanently onto your skin.'

Sherlock valiantly pretends it's nothing and shrugs. 'You act like I've not done more harmful things to myself before. It's a tattoo. It hurt, it passed... Unlike this darned bullet graze! Where's that ambulance, John? Why do I need one anyway? You're a doctor, surely you don't need them to guide you while you patch me up!'

I shake my head. 'Those days are gone, Sherlock, when we'd would get into trouble with the petty criminals of London and we'd stitch each other in turn.'

'What changed?' he asks me, eyeing me closely, his voice dropping low all of a sudden.

My fingers claw on the fabric of his shirt. 'Lost Mary in my arms. I won't let you be next.' I'd sound more serious if my voice weren't shaking so much right now. I don't trust myself with such an important job, not when I'm holding on by a thread.

Sherlock lowers his gaze and, perhaps to try to distract me, he answers truthfully: 'Düsseldorf, I think it was. Or some other city that rhymed with it. After a while all of Europe felt the same, all the faces were anonymous, all the buildings replicas of others, all felt empty.'

'You were missing home.'

Sherlock nods in acknowledgment, quietly. 'One day I had a bad run with colonel Moran, Jim's right-hand man in Europe. He won that time, and I had to lay low.'

I know he's hiding something from me now. 'How bad did you get hurt?'

'Bad enough to gain an infection. I should have been more careful, but you weren't there to dress the wounds and tell me to take care... so I didn't stop until my fever spiked too high to carry on. I hid in an old building's basement, with a skylight of glass blocks to the pavement outside. All I could see for delirious days on end were people's feet, coming and going, and I was sure they were all to get me. I was too weak to get up by then, too weak to defend myself, luckily I had some water. Eventually the fever broke and I grew stronger, and I managed to go out, feed myself, rebuild and recover. I tried to follow your advice from then on, John. You'd be proud.'

'I'm always proud', I correct him before I can gather my thoughts, but then... 'Is that when I had your back?' I try to understand. Maybe my name was some delirious need for company, being so vulnerable and alone.

'No. That was when I followed your example, John. When you were shot, you had it so much worse, a near fatal infection as well, and you fought so hard to remain alive.'

'Anyone would have, fighting for their lives.'

'I may have been fighting for my life, literally, at some point. I sure was fighting for a life I left behind me, that I wasn't sure I'd see again. Thinking of you kept me going.'

'Sherlock, I'm so sorry', I break down with a small muted sob. He shouldn't have gone through it all alone. If only I had known... And the way I greeted his return, unknowing the full story behind his disappearance...

'It was my decision, John', he reads right through my self-blaming silence. 'One I have not regretted a day since.'

From a distance the disconcerted sound of emergency services sirens comes closer and sharper. The ambulance is coming, and possibly with DI Greg Lestrade on its tail.

I take one last moment to share a look with Sherlock, and I smile to give him confidence, before he braces himself and I get up to wave the paramedics over.

He knows this time I'm just a step away.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock's been given a low dosage of painkillers, and we were rushed to the A&E, where we had to wait for pointless x-rays (I've carefully sensed the damage with my fingertips, the bone wasn't hit, I'd know, in the battlefield we didn't have the luxury of such gadgets at hand) and, finally, Sherlock will get stitched up before release to recover at home. With the patient being so uncooperative, I've worked my way to stay by Sherlock's side all the way and we are now waiting in a small room for the procedure.

'So... Why "John" in this particular lettering font?' I break the ice, tiredly pinching the bridge of my nose. I sit by his stretcher, the gangly genius occupying the whole of it, laying back artistically, arm and legs like he'd done at the long sofa in Baker Street, only the left arm closer to his chest by a sling. I know he's not possibly comfortable right now; he's playing an act to appease me.

'Do you recognise it, John?'

'The font? It's accessible, commonplace. It's the one I use in my blog.'

He looks away, nodding.

'I've always found you to be particularly creative when it comes to your blog, John. You make me out to be a hero half the times, and a buffoon the other half. John, you keep me right.'

I hide a small smile. Unfortunately, this is not the time or place for it. The nurses have returned, wanting to prep Sherlock for him to get his wound sutured, anaesthetising the area and removing the pressure dressing. I follow their actions under close scrutiny, wanting to spare Sherlock from further suffering. If I could keep Sherlock from all pain, shelter him from the evils of the world; then perhaps I'd earn the right to be in such a prominent spot in his mind and skin.

'John?' Sherlock calls me out of my abstractions, childlike. I immediately focus on him. Is he feeling faint, is the pain too much, is he reacting badly to the local anaesthesia?

He asks me, meekly, upon getting my attention: 'John, will I get a cool scar when it heals?' And smiles, hopeful like a dork.

I could punch the git right now. Instead, I find myself fighting the urge to giggle.

'No, Sherlock, there won't be a cool scar because it'll heal just fine. Unlike mine', I add, patiently.

'Bugger', he pretends to be bothered. I take a deeper breath and look at the incoming doctor, stretching latex gloves on his hands.

'Are you ready, Sherlock?' I mediate.

He glances at the doctor and narrates, monotone: 'Married, three children, cheating on his wife with a redhead who owns a Persian cat... Seriously, John, is this low morals doctor the best London's hospitals have to offer? I should expect you to at least oppose him!'

I'm shocked, staring between the patient and bewildered doctor. 'What has the cat got to do with it?' I ask, at least an octave higher.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'As always you focus on the accessory and leave out the glaringly obvious, John. This man is not the best doctor in the room.'

I frown. And actually turn around to check the rest of the room, including behind me. I point at Sherlock's doctor: 'Well, he's the doctor you've got, Sherlock.'

'Leaving me with this doctor is gross negligence, John', he adds nonchalant.

'What?' I don't follow.

'Your negligence. You should take over the procedure, John.'

'It's just some stiches, don't be such a baby!' I spite him.

'If it's that simple, one more reason to be you!'

'No. That man is your doctor and-'

We're interrupted by the doctor himself, who pushes the medical tray kit towards me. 'I read your blog, doctor Watson', he confesses, naturally. 'And given that it's the patient's express request...'

'Just drop it, John!' the detective seconds the A&E doctor, victoriously.

'Wait!' I protest at Sherlock's smug smirk. 'He can't win this easily. The git always gets what he wants!'

'Not always!' Sherlock corrects, petulantly. He's been shot, after all.

'Fine...' I give in, grabbing the needle. 'For future reference, we could have just gone to Baker Street instead of taking a detour to the hospital, Sherlock.'

'Yes', he says, 'I was thinking the exact same thing...'

I groan, lost for words. In one last attempt at rationality I mumble: 'Fine, but why do you want _me_ to do it?'

'Because you're here, John.' He lies back on the stretcher, relaxing his shoulder. 'You're actually here this time', he murmurs, closing his eyes like a languid cat on a hot rooftop.

 _ **.**_

* * *

 _2nd A/N: It's all very unlikely, I know, but it didn't stop me. Addendum: I realise that opening scene of series 3 with Sherlock and Mycroft debunks this story's premise, but now I've written it I'll blame its faults on some intentional and opportune dirt smudge. -csf_


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N: Another sci-fi rubbish here. (Ta.)_

 _Left this one barely started, long ago. Some other plot forcefully invaded my mind at the time. The OCD streak in me has brought me back to it. So, two updates at once, for it's unfair to repost the same first chapter and make you wait, or post the second and press you to rummage through old material to see where it's coming from. -csf_

* * *

 _ **. 1**_

Sherlock Holmes has always had a vain streak to his personality. His distant ascetic genius act always cracks slightly under a genuine praise. As if betraying a deep need to connect, barely awake under the complex layers of his persona. A need for recognition; maybe even understanding. To me, that small flair of vanity indicates that no matter the rational man's powers, he is as human as all of us, faltering under the human connection of praise.

And he deserves it – so I don't mind praising him at all.

Unfortunately, his successes with the Yard, and even to some extent my blog detailing our work together, have brought the Baker Street's consulting detective more than new cases by email, post and clients through the front door. It has got Sherlock a lot of notoriety across London, and far beyond.

With all the deserved praise deriving from the new influx of clients, there also came hate mail, and threats. I never foresaw those when I used my blog to praise my friend. _I was too innocent in a harsh world._

Of course Sherlock is aware of those threats and takes adequate precautions. It helps when one's brother has a minor position in the government, and commands cctv cameras for fun. So, mostly, Mycroft has become our intelligence agency. An upscale bodyguard without the legwork, if you will.

Throughout the time Sherlock's office has coincided with his home address, Mycroft has been carefully adding new security measures to protect his little brother from intruders, criminals, raging stalking fans, the lot. I rather think he has covered my back quite a few times as well – _don't really know why_ ; I've always refused to play the part of his brother's handler and I've hardly ever been his messenger.

A lot of Sherlock's privacy has been compromised in the effort to keep him safe. Not that the man who is prone to get out of bed and walk around 221B wrapped only in a bed sheet while on a live conference over a case is really bothered. Other things – like a biohazard cleaning crew once being called to wipe down the kitchen, ruining one ongoing rate of decomposition experiment – may have been more upsetting to Sherlock than stalking cctv cameras, real time feed microphones installed on the living room and other such wonders Mycroft's overworked team as come up with.

This time Mycroft may have taken it a step too far.

Sherlock is mildly amused. I'm flabbergasted.

Apparently, years ago, before I met Sherlock Holmes and around the time he moved into 221B Baker Street, Mycroft's top secret lab coat people have harvested some of Sherlock's cells. And – even more unbelievable than having Sherlock consent to people coming so close to him and his cells – they have spent the next years trying to get a clone of Sherlock Holmes. And rapidly ageing that clone too.

I still struggle to believe it and I have the clone standing right in front of me. I'd call it Sherlock Two if it wasn't creeping me out so much to have two Sherlocks in the same living room, interrupted breakfast at the table now completely forgotten.

I can't stop myself from rubbing my eyes. It feels like I'm seeing double even if they're dressed slightly differently. Maybe there is even a slight age gap between them. Sherlock Two has aged till he appears to be Sherlock's age when the sample was harvested. So... early thirties? There's a softer roundness to Sherlock Two's features, and also a stronger feel of despise for idiocy in the room.

He's been giving me plenty of those uppish looks, Sherlock Two. You see, he's never met me. He doesn't quite understand why am I still in the room with the two Holmes brothers, breakfast consisting of boiled egg abandoned in the cup, and coffee going cold. He's hinting at me that I don't belong in this living room, as if I'm one too many in the family reunion. I don't really pay attention to the clone. _We all have to make sacrifices._ He can either put up with me or vacate my armchair.

Sherlock, the one I've known longer, has been eyeing carefully his replica with interest.

'It will do, Mycroft', he says at last, nevertheless acting flaringly pained, exaggeratedly so.

Both his clone and I frown at once. Sherlock knows of this plan then.

Mycroft is the one that comes to my aid, explaining what is going on, maybe even to aggravate his baby brother who'd much rather keep his doppelgänger's _raison d'être_ under wraps.

'Your younger self will be making public appearances the next few days, Sherlock. He'll be taking your place whenever there is the slightest chance that you face danger from your unidentified enemy. This is a much simpler solution than having my men protecting you at all times, particularly when you go rogue so many of those times. They're wasted chasing you when your enemies do so also, and are getting rather tired of sprinting after you when you try to outrun them', big brother confides with a knowledgeable wink at me. _Yeah, Sherlock's strides come from bloody long legs and a thin frame._

'Mycroft...' I start, confused. 'What happens if the clone gets hurt?'

'Sherlock feels the pain' Mycroft deadpans. 'No, not really', he corrects at my shocked expression. 'The clone is not a real person, not in the sense you would describe one, John. He's more of a imprint of reality, a ghost with a corporal manifestation. However, he's made of unstable biological matter that won't last. Inevitably there are flaws that make him short of human. He does not feel pain, he will not learn, he is an _idée fixe_ that cannot be changed for the duration of his activation. That is too say, the clone is a walking talking replica of how Sherlock was when the cells were harvested. Who we are, John, is a strong reality that is imprinted in far more than our souls. It's truly a part of us. From our thoughts, beliefs and vices to the fitness level and vitamins intake, all of who we are that we can quantify or describe is a part of us, of all of us, in our cells. From a brain cell to a muscle cell, from a fingertip to the heart, from an alveoli in our lungs to a strand of hair, who we are is deeply coded in our cell's memory. It's beautifully terrifying that who we are is a part of every tiny elemental building block in us... Think of this, John. As we go around our day, shedding our hair', he looks with some grudge at Sherlock's long raven black curls, 'some more than others, we are leaving behind minute portions of who we are. What stories they could tell us, if only cloning was not such an expensive work – and humanity in general so useless to duplicate.'

This man is so desperate to keep his baby brother alive. The one example of humanity that he seems to truly care about.

'You've long foreseen a future when Sherlock might be needed one day', I notice out loud.

'I've always known enough of my brother's genius to seize the opportunity, John.'

I smile, realising this is a declaration of caring in the Holmes peculiar way. Mycroft purses his lips, displeased of my deductions; he's read them easily in my facial expressions.

'The clone has been briefed and is apt to take Sherlock's place. He will take the dangerous risks for my brother in the next few days. That has been established. If something happens to the clone, Sherlock will be spared, at least... Although Sherlock will moan from having to listen to me. A lot of money and energy have been spent to recreate Sherlock Holmes. A Sherlock so perfect the public will be fooled. Only the three of us know this.'

'And the scientists', I point out, logically.

'They don't count.' Mycroft's tone implies they're locked up somewhere. I frown.

'So how many Sherlocks are there, in some dusty basement, waiting to come to life?'

'None more, John. This is it. The clone was created as an emergency contingency. We have decided to deploy him now.'

I frown, a shiver running down my back. I strive to keep a strong appearance. 'And St Bart's? Why not use the clone against Moriarty?'

The older Holmes is not surprised by my question. As if he had anticipated it. 'Not ready yet, alas. Scientists are not magicians', Mycroft smiles a dead smile. 'Not even mine ones.'

'And now, what happens after the danger is over?'

We all glance at the fake Sherlock, seating in my armchair, looking (appropriately) bored.

'He... disintegrates, for the lack of a better expression, after 3 days. You will notice his outward appearance starts to fade and falter, leading up to his expiration date, John. It's really quite wondrous. So, Sherlock', he addresses his brother, 'use him wisely.' Mycroft wiggles his eyebrows, both comically and eerily in a way only he knows how.

'Naturally', Sherlock dismisses vaguely.

Mycroft sends me a pained overly suffering look and dismisses himself from 221B.

After big brother leaves, I'm still stunned to be in a room with two Sherlocks. The clone will stay in Baker Street, waiting for directives. This can get tricky. I need to make sure I always know which Sherlock I'm addressing. My good friend, or the one who still doesn't know me.

With a deep breath and a puzzled smile, I get up and do what I should have long ago. I walk over to the second Sherlock and take out a hand to shake his.

'Hi, I'm John.'

The man looks at me with a most unappreciative manner and assures me: 'Yes, retired soldier, currently a doctor at A&E – no, wait, not even that, NHS care. Yes, I can see that, it's as plain as daylight. I hardly require introductions, John, and I'm not one for small talk. I don't believe you have much going on that I may require your services for, so why don't we save time by skipping the social niceties? I'm not pleased to meet you, I'm not interested in small talk, I can easily deduce all I need from you just by looking. Why would I want to talk to you?'

I frown, upset. 'You may need my phone?' I return coldly. This is not the Sherlock I met at Bart's upon returning to London. This is a more detached, socially isolated, genius.

'There's the landline', he points out, never knowing I'm alluding to the first time I met the real Sherlock Holmes.

'You prefer to text.'

For once he looks taken aback. 'Yes, I do. How do you know that?'

'Sherlock is my best friend', I state simply, honestly.

He twists his face in a derogative smile that begs for complicity, then slowly his amusement crumbles. 'Really?' he sounds shocked. _I'm taking prejudice, mate._

The real Sherlock has allowed the interaction go on for this long, but now he intervenes, a bit jittery: 'John is too honest to joke about these things, Duplicate.'

The clones frowns, annoyed. 'I have a name, you know?' he bites back, rudely.

'Too confusing', Sherlock dismisses, without giving him a second look. 'John, we're setting up a plan.'

I copy his victory smile. It's Sherlock and John against crime. Well... _Sherlock, John and Sherlock Two, I guess._

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	26. Chapter 26

_(A/N) Second part of a two-posts-in-one-day update._

 _Context_ _: What if Mycroft's white lab coat people created a temporary clone of Sherlock? Featuring a time-frozen younger Sherlock who doesn't know John, an amused and short-tempered John, an original Sherlock who doesn't think he's changed all that much despite clear evidence otherwise, and a very powerful minor civil servant. -csf_

* * *

 _ **. 2**_

Mycroft leaves us, at last, to digesting infamous reality of having two Sherlock Holmes in 221B, and I find myself shaking my head in an attempt to brush off my stupor. _It still feels inconceivable, a surreal deviation from normal reality, and I face it in honest disbelief._

Tea is in order.

I abandon my half-eaten breakfast, much too shocked to keep an appetite, and go make a cuppa. Well, when I say one...

My best friend has taken refuge in his thought process, as he's sitting on his armchair, vacantly following me around with a lost gaze. I mean, I feel like he is. It's no coincidence his chair is angled before the window, and his pitch dark silhouette contrasts sharply against the pool of light, adding to his mystery and secrecy. But, if I can sense right, he's studying me back, wondering if this time the Holmes brothers have gone too far, if I can deal with the top secret genetic engineering of doppelgänger clones (and cranky ones at it). Perhaps also wondering if we had met at some other point in our lives, would we still have clicked as friends so instantaneously.

There's something to this younger-Sherlock clone. He's colder, fiercely independent, arrogantly detached, full of rationality and despise for the non-geniuses – _he hasn't found his heart yet._

My friend – the true Sherlock Holmes – has gone through a lot this past years we've been friends. The cases he solves are no longer mere intellectual challenges, the witnesses are no longer overly emotional reporters of past events, the victims are more than facts and statistics, mastermind criminals can turn out to be boring, and friends can be supportive and need support.

In that St Bart's basement lab, when we first met, Sherlock Holmes saw a very uptight, silent soldier – and he saw potential for a flatmate. I fancy he also saw a mystery in me that day.

This morning, Sherlock Two saw a GP who knew too much of "him" already, leaving him at a disadvantage. The fact that I was trying to be friendly was possibly too much for an introvert detective and he reacted instinctively by pushing me away. The clone might believe he knows all he needs to know about me, for he extensively deduced me at face value, but he doesn't understand the friendship (and associated vulnerability) between a genius and a common man.

I need to be gentle with this clone, and take precautions I wouldn't with his original, if I want to gain his trust. Three days is not a long self-life, but I insist on knowing Sherlock in all his incarnations.

So I'm taking them both nice cups of tea.

Tea always helps.

 _ **.**_

'Well, this is creepiness enough for one morning', I comment out loud. Finishing the tea I suggest: 'Does any of you geniuses actually have a healthy breakfast?'

Immediately they both dismiss the idea, briskly, swirling their jackets as they get up and turn (in the absence of a certain long wool coat – will they share the famous appendage?).

'Not now, John!' my Sherlock growls. His clone second-motions:

'I'm working, John. I never eat while on a case!'

 _You do nowadays, because I make you._

I roll my eyes at both. I sugar the teas anyway (if I leave them about, they always get drunk no matter what the detective says). As I open the fridge for the milk, though, I find more than I bargained for; some pieces of meat or flesh floating inside the bottle.

'Sherlock!' I protest, angrily.

'Oh, you found my _lactobacillus sp_ experiment, John', Sherlock tells me, unfazed.

'Sherlock...' I warn heavily.

He shrugs and diverts: 'Duplicate, clean up the mess, will you?'

'Me?' his clone protests dramatically. 'I think _lactobacilli_ with liver is a great idea!'

Baker Street's proper genius smirks. Pained, he insists: 'John is adamant, I'm afraid.'

The clone gets upset, lazily. 'He's your assistant', he grunts. 'I mean, _our_ assistant!'

'No, he's definitely mine', Sherlock states assuredly. 'You haven't earned him yet, Duplicate. Kindly remove the liver samples from the milk.'

'Sherlock...' I intervene.

'Throw it all away, I mean', Sherlock corrects carefully. Then, lighter, he adds to me: 'Can I keep it for a couple of hours more?'

'Yes', I nod. _Of course._ 'Keep it out of the fridge, will you?'

He won't answer – I wasn't expecting him to – but I know he listened. Even with the distance act, I know he'll do that for me. Because when it matters, it's just that: an act to keep up appearances.

'Oh, there's powdered milk in the cupboard', Sherlock adds helpfully. 'It no longer contains body parts.'

 _Gee, thanks!_ I grimace anyway.

'Duplicate...' My friend calls out. He doesn't let the genius biochemical copy get away with _their_ natural laziness.

Grumpy, the genius called out gets up and comes to the kitchen. I'd swear his pouting like a four year old and I try to hide a giggle. He brushes past me stiffly, grabs the (bloody) milk bottle and bangs it against the side table, where Sherlock's precious secondary school microscope is prompted.

'Thank you', the usual genius says from his armchair, not really meaning it. Completely ignoring that the milk on the tabletop is not disposed off.

Second Sherlock just grumps and walks off, locking himself in Sherlock's room. Apparently he already knows that's their room. Or he just couldn't care less. But he probably just deduced it from the periodic table on the wall.

'Sherlock...' I start with a sigh. _I've seen a lot of shit in my days, but this is too much._ 'This is going to be a nightmare. And for what? Sherlock, you know I'll always do my best to keep you safe. Having a clone that walks and talks just like you as a decoy target, a dummy for a hit...' Will the duplicate actually comply with it, based on the fact that he comes with a three days due date? What happens if he saves my friend from a marksman's shot and the marksman shoots again? What if the clone himself turns unpredictable and tries to open his own consulting detective's office?

Sherlock smirks knowingly. 'Duplicate is growing on you', he reads easily. Then he ponders: 'Shouldn't be surprised. I haven't changed all that much and you've chosen me as your friend.'

Whatever he thinks he saw between the clone and me, I haven't felt it myself. 'Well, your clone is not warming up to me', I deadpan.

Sherlock actually smiles. 'I wouldn't say that. You should know... geniuses can be quite uptight when it comes to opening up, and I think you've touched a chord already, John.'

'How?' I blink, confused, glancing at the abandoned milk bottle.

'By being kind and unsolvable', he pronounces. Then he adds for good measure: 'Great attributes for an assistant.'

'I'm not your assistant, I'm your blogger', I bark. _Reminds me too much of Mrs Hudson saying she's not the housekeeper, though. No one ever takes me seriously._

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	27. Chapter 27

_A/N: Just a little characters' interaction, for the fun of it. Here's part three. -csf_

 _Context:_ _What if Mycroft's white lab coat people created a temporary clone of Sherlock? Featuring a time-frozen younger Sherlock who doesn't know John, an amused and short-tempered John, an original Sherlock who doesn't think he's changed all that much despite clear evidence otherwise, and a very overworked detective inspector. -csf_

* * *

 _ **. 3**_

'John, we have a case!' my Sherlock announces gleefully.

'Hm.' _Hang on._ 'Is it safe to go out there and leave your clone in the flat?'

Sherlock answers impatiently, tying up his scarf: 'As safe as it is to leave me!'

 _Yeah, that's what I was worrying about._

'Your brother Mycroft said, in fact, the opposite. That your clone should go and you should stay here because it's safer for you. There have been all those threats made on your life and–'

Sherlock interrupts me, looking for all the world to see as if his feelings are hurt: 'This is a simple crime scene, John! You'll be there, Lestrade will be there, some of the Yard will be there... _You never let me have any fun!_ ' he adds, petulantly, crossing his arms in front of him.

Since when have I become some parental figure restricting my friend? I opened my eyes wide, then immediately shut them tight, groaning.

'Sherlock?' I ask behind the hand I took to my forehead.

'Yeah?'

'Not you. The _real_ Sherlock', I demand.

'Well, I'm real, for three days', he tells me, playing hurt. 'How did you find out I'm the clone?'

'I told you, Sherlock is my best mate.' I turn around to the window, by which the supposed clone has been standing quietly observing. 'Why trick me, Sherlock?'

He takes a deeper breath. 'Because like you said, John, the clone should go. I trusted you'd remember that. And I really wanted to go to the crime scene. Come on, John! There's hardly any danger, no more than usual, my brother is just enjoying messing with us, controlling us, handing us over one of his toys...'

The clone, by the living room door mumbles derisively, 'I'm not a toy!', but admits defeat by removing the scarf and long coat slowly, as if regretfully. 'I still don't know how you spotted me', he adds with a grudge.

'Don't take it personally', I answer with a tight smile. 'I knew it was bound to happen sooner or later because I know Sherlock. Told you, he's my–'

'–best friend', the clone completes coldly, then rolls his eyes and walks past me. _Is he jealous?_ To the real Sherlock he strains: 'Any more bright ideas?'

The real Sherlock Holmes just blinks, ousted by plain John Watson.

I try taking a deeper breath, but this is _too much._ Really feeling aggravated, I berate the two Sherlocks:

'I expect better from both of you. And, honestly, if you want me around – any of you two! – you'll have to do much better than that! I want to know the difference between the two of you _now_!' My voice has escalated and I'm shouting now, and when I realise that I prefer to drop it, eerily low: 'Which one of you doesn't have a belly button, or has the off-switch at the back of the neck, or a serial number tattooed on his bicep? What is it, and how do I tell you apart easily?'

'We're identical, John', Sherlock starts. _At least I think it's Sherlock._ 'There's no point in creating identical clones if–'

'Mycroft would insist on a safety clause, don't give me that!'

He looks away, caught. 'Fine. But I wasn't lying, John.'

'Sherlock!' I shout.

The detective rolls up his sleeve to show me his forearm where a pale scar gleams under the light from the window. 'Life happened, since my cells have been harvested. That's what sets us apart, John', he admits at last.

 _ **.**_

'Why would you insist on going on a case when it's a Three on your scale, Sherlock?'

The detective smiles oddly. 'What's the point of having a clone of you don't use it, John?'

I frown, but get no time to clear my confusion. Sherlock and I stand outside 221's exterior door, waiting on the vainest clone ever created to come down dressed exactly as the longer-running version of Sherlock. My mad friend is decided on keeping the secret from the Yard by swapping in and out of place with his clone at the crime scene.

I'm quite convinced he just wants to give me a heart attack with his plan. I'm supposed to cover, elude and overall manage their stage-like swaps, without Greg Lestrade finding out.

The clone is finally coming down the stairs, looking like an even more faithful version of Sherlock.

'You used the cologne on the top drawer?' Sherlock confronts him, professional. 'Two squirts, no more, the first one shorter and the second–'

'–dragged over the clavicle', the clone finishes, mimicking the gesture. 'I'm wearing the same shirt, the same trousers, the same phone model in my pocket... Anything else?'

'Yeah. Don't look so happy.'

'But it's a crime scene!' the clone protests.

'The Yard needs to think they need you, not the other way around', Sherlock states, as we set off to the street and my friend immediately spots a cab to hail down.

'They need you and you don't need them', the clone repeats.

'Always', Sherlock confirms firmly.

'Does that apply to John too?'

We all stop short, the cab is parking at the curb for us.

'Excuse me?' the old Sherlock spats out.

'Nothing', the clone dismisses at once. 'I just wanted first dibs on the cab seat', he says, languidly occupying the centre of the back seat and sprawling over to the sides. Being a London black cab, Sherlock and I are left with the opposing seat, facing him. Sherlock grumps as he climbs in next, and I follow silently, banging shut the door behind me.

 _Sherlock is getting a taste of his own medicine with his clone; I've got little to add._

 _ **.**_

The crime scene that is so promising to all the Baker Street's detectives is grim, at best, to anyone else. DI Lestrade from Scotland Yard is already there, and as I glance at our friend I take immediate notice of the dark bags under the eyes, telltale signs of an overworked officer, and a good man too.

On the way over Sherlock – the original version – has briefed his clone on all he needed to know about Lestrade. Which didn't amount to a lot of recalled data, something I'll carefully keep from Greg's knowledge (and sensitivity) if our friend ever gets wind of the genetic copying.

 _"He's tall-ish. Well, taller than John. He's got grey hair, but not all of it. He's ...hm... He works for the Yard too. Homicides division."_

 _"Goodie, our favourite!"_

 _I cleared my throat loudly at that. The clone mumbled a protest, as if a division handling mass murderers and serial killers was off-limits of common courtesy._

 _"He's the best and brightest of the Yard lot, but don't expect too much."_

 _"So, he's like John?" I turned to the clone, taking prejudice. "I meant, is he a... friend too?"_

 _"Geoff would say so."_

 _I cleared my throat loudly. Sherlock rolled his eyes but gave in: "He's a friend."_

 _I added: "Also, his name is Greg."_

 _"Is it?" Sherlock squinted. Sometimes I don't know if he's messing with me._

 _The clone summarized: "And the Yard needs me more than I need them."_

 _"Remember, I'll take over as soon as you've done the first assessment of the scene."_

 _"How do I do that?"_

 _"I already did crime scenes before you were born, Duplicate, so you should know."_

 _"Use my senses to notice everything around me, don't deduce out loud until I get everything I need or they might throw me out for being inappropriate before I got all the data collected?"_

 _"Yes", Sherlock quietly agreed. "Oh, and don't sniff the body openly, it's one of those things that gets you thrown out."_

 _"Why? The sense of smell is a paramount investigation tool that–"_

 _"Or grope the corpse to assess the musculature and general fitness status. Don't know why."_

 _"They have a problem with that too?" The clone sighed loudly. "Have you really conformed with all those stupid societal norms? Since when do you care about what other people think? They all think we're freaks anyway!"_

 _Sherlock's eyes widened, but I could tell he had no ready comeback._

Now, understatedly walking over to the yellow crime scene tape, Sherlock Two and I approach Greg. _Act cool. Act like yourself. No, you are yourself. It's the clone that needs to perform a role here. I act like John Watson and he acts like Sherlock Holmes._

'Sherlock, this one is right up your alley!' Greg calls out, raising the perimeter tape so we can go in.

The clone frowns. 'Body parts preserved in formaldehyde? Victim in a catatonic state? Spontaneous combustion?' he hazards guesses at high speed. I elbow him sharply and give my best smile to Greg. 'Just kidding, Gary', the clone corrects.

I roll my eyes. The DI corrects angrily: 'It's "Greg" and stop messing around, Sherlock! Honestly, only you can get me worked up this fast...'

I blink, relieved Greg as become so used to Sherlock's usual social blunders. The DI is already taking the lead and we follow suit.

'Anyway, John, how's life?'

'Not too bad. And you?'

Greg knows it's useless to do small talk with the detective anyway, but the clone just eyes us suspiciously, as if there was some sort of hidden code in our conversation.

Greg confesses: 'I'd kill for a couple of pints and an early night. This victim's body has got us baffled.'

'Sounds like Sherlock will like it, then. What about it?'

'Well, you have a look, John. You're a doctor.'

Curious, I come over to the unfortunate victim on a dark corner of a back alley, smelling of stale beer and an assorted collection of bodily fluids. I kneel by the cold corpse and look it over.

From the corner of my eye I can see Sherlock Two stiffly standing there, impatient to have a go, and deeply resenting me for being the first one swooping in.

'Let me guess, no one saw a thing', I say to Greg.

'We are asking the members of the public with pertinent information regarding this unfortunate incident to come forward, nah, nah, nah.'

I look up at the DI, slightly shocked. He actually said that last bit out loud. He must be really at his wit's end.

It doesn't take me long to see a deep laceration on the victim's abdomen, and as peel away the fabric layers of his clothing I catch sight of the most unusual wound. Inside the body it's all... mush.

'Well, I've never seen anything like it', I end up saying. 'It looks like he's been blitzed on the inside. Some highly concentrated alkali, Sherlock?' I hazard a guess to the only genius around.

The clone shakes his head, entranced by the corpse and the scene.

'Microwaved?' Greg suggests, lamely. In fairness, we both know that voicing terrible suggestions is often a good way to bait the genius into sharing his partial deductions before he's ready to spill the showman's final delivery.

'This is not a sci-fi story', the clone bites at the DI.

 _From where I'm standing right now, I'm not as sure, but I keep quiet._

'Sherlock...' I start. How do I tell this vain copy that he needs to stand back and let the present days Sherlock come to solve the case? Greg needs his rest, somewhere in London there's a murderer to catch, and I know my friend – the one I know longer – is itching to come out and _play_. 'Did you bring your magnifying glass, or is it in the cab?'

The clone plays rogue, and I can't say it surprises me. 'I got it with me, thank you, John, for that useless input.'

Greg frowns at Sherlock, looking put off by the brisk spat. 'Did you two have a fight or something? Sherlock looks a bit... off today.'

'We're fine', I say quickly.

'Don't look fine to me. He', with a head twitch Greg indicates Sherlock, 'isn't very much himself. He's usually–'

'Nicer?' I say as a warning to the clone. _Get your act together, literally!_

'More attentive to you, was what I was going to say.' We all look at Greg, while he bites his lip and apologetically assures us, 'Sherlock often glances at you, John, when you aren't looking. He's sort of doing it all the time, because he's got your back, or he's just trying to see if he's impressing you already, I don't know. And these snappy responses, it's just wrong. Sherlock hasn't done that in years. Not to you, John. To me or another Yarder, sure he'll be arrogant and bigger than the world once in a while; more than once in a while. But you, John, you should see how he looks at you when you have your back turned and you've just said something simple but clever, or he's worrying about you because you're rubbing your shoulder without even noticing. Now, I don't know what is going on, John. But if you two had a fight...'

 _'We didn't, Greg.'_

The detective inspector turns around sharply as he recognises Sherlock's voice from behind him, all the while he's been talking to a Sherlock in front of him.

'You had to get my name right this time so I wouldn't have the guts to sock you, Sherlock? What in the bloody hell is going on? Who is _that_?' he points angrily at the other Sherlock.

'My doppelgänger', Sherlock answers carefully. 'It's actually a long story.'

'You–'

'Not really.'

'John doesn't deserve this, you know?'

'What?'

'Putting up with two of you! The man's a saint; or a masochist.'

'Oi!' It's my fair turn to complain.

'And, anyway, why did you bring your twin along?' Greg protests. I briskly look around us, but the thinning crowd of Yards and forensic technicians is too self-absorbed to have noticed us yet.

'To solve the case. It's really simple, actually.'

'Well, speaking of which, give us the answer then!'

'Dry ice. The victim was suicidal and ingested a portion of dry ice. As it hit the stomach it froze the organ in contact. That is often fatal and definitely painful. The victim then stumbled and fell, causing the stomach, frozen and brittle, to smash to bits inside his body. As it defrosted naturally the damaged tissues and cells turned to mush. As is further proven by the freeze burns path on the man's throat caused by the ingestion of the dry ice, swallowed whole. Now, it could have been a murder, but if you look at the man's nails and hair roots you see there are clear signs that he once took great pride in his appearance but that has stopped suddenly a while ago. The roots of his hair are grey, while the hair itself is coloured jet black. Professionally done too, it wasn't a sloppy bathroom sink job. If you look at the fingernails, discoloured and bearing signs of jaundice, you can hazard a guess of liver failure. By the pen ink smudges in his dominant hand I'd say he had the shakes, that is he had alcohol withdrawal symptoms, so he probably drank himself to an early grave. One he was only too eager to reach the faster, for sentimental reasons I'll leave for you to find, detective inspector. I imagine the painful theatrics of the scene was chosen to trick the insurance companies to pay out multiple life policies to a loved one.'

We are all looking in awe at Sherlock.

 _Sherlock Two is the one looking a bit jealous right now._

'So I'd suggest you wrap this up here, Greg, and go home to get some rest, you are way deep into overtime', he adds with a dead smile but warm eyes. To me he points out: 'Not even a Three after all, John. Alas, the disappointment...'

I smirk at his blatant lie.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	28. Chapter 28

_A/N: No animal testing has been performed during the writing and editing of this chapter (or any other, for that matter). -csf_

 _Context_ _: What if Mycroft's white lab coat people created a temporary clone of Sherlock? Featuring a time-frozen younger Sherlock who is getting to know John, a short-tempered John, an original Sherlock who doesn't think he's changed all that much, an overworked and over-tried detective inspector from New Scotland Yard, and a Mrs Hudson who is clearly the foundation of Baker Street._

* * *

 _ **. 4**_

'The more I _think_ about it, really _think_ , the less I get it, Sherlock.' _Yeah, Greg, it took a while to sink in me as well._ 'There's two of you', Greg remarks, borderline catatonic by now. Good thing we brought him over with us to Baker Street, safe ground for all sorts of logic meltdowns and suspension of disbelief.

 _Greg's really having a bad delayed reaction._

'Yes, two of us', Sherlock assents, sternly.

'You have a twin', he rephrases carefully.

'A clone', Sherlock corrects, for his love of scientific accuracy. 'He's temporary, anyway.'

'There's another Sherlock Holmes', Greg tries again. _Catatonic now._ I haste to get that tea made. Tea can always smooth things over.

'Only for a couple of days more, Lestrade.'

'Because one Sherlock bloody Holmes in this world is not enough?' The DI's temper is rising abruptly and the consulting detective keeps daftly answering to the letter.

Sherlock blinks, confused. 'No, he's here in a bid to protect me. My brother Mycroft came up with the idea, actually.'

'What about John?' Greg points at me. 'He's always there to cover your arse.'

I smirk; neither pays any attention to me.

'I'm still keeping John around', Sherlock says, negligently.

'Yeah, but he doesn't get a clone, does he?'

'My clone took years to be fully developed. There was no time to create another clone. In fact, my clone is still very much an experimental trial.'

'I'm just saying it's hardly fair on John.'

'Because he doesn't get his own clone?' Sherlock depreciates.

'Because he'll drive himself to the ground trying to save two Sherlocks while there is only one of him. Not to mention the poor man's sanity, putting up with two of you at once!'

'John knows he's not to get attached to the clone. He'll just ignore my clone.'

'All these years on, and you still don't get the basics of John Watson?' Greg asks sadly. Then glancing at me as if he'd just remembered me there, holding a couple of tea mugs in shocked silence, Greg chooses to walk out of 221B without another word, leaving behind a very confused (authentic) Sherlock.

I put down the tea mugs on the first available surface.

'John?' Sherlock calls out, a clear doubt in his voice, a request to have things explained, the emotions detailed out, the internal mechanisms exposed that he believes are beyond his comprehension.

'It's fine, Sherlock', I deflect instead. 'Greg's just a bit tired.'

In his defence, the detective won't let it go. 'Is he right? Are you upset about the clone?'

Smiling to appease him, I point out: 'You are my friend. Now there are two of you. Why would that upset me?'

Sherlock suddenly shrugs off his torpor. 'You are very accommodating, John. That's one of your best traits', he says and walks off without further ado.

I stand by the abandoned tea mugs, left to cool on their own, wondering if I should have said something different, if I lost my opportunity.

 _ **.**_

It's really odd to have two Sherlocks vying for my attention. They may come across all independent and fierce, but when it comes to their work, they love to shine and be admired. Something I think they deserve and I'm quite willing to provide in a double dose. That, alone, should be enough to keep the geniuses happy – or so I hoped.

In less than 24 hours f coexistence, they have started to compete with each other. Sometimes it's quite clear I'm being used as the target to impress, in their vanity battles.

I was quietly reading a book (and not a murder mystery one, thank you, I have enough of those on my everyday life!) when Sherlock Two created a new poisonous snake antidote at the kitchen table. Sherlock One – the old Sherlock, that is – picked up his violin and composed an intricate and beautiful sonata just as his clone tried to relay his scientific endeavours to me. Soon Sherlock Two left all his chemistry equipment untidy and, grabbing Sherlock's laptop, he solved three cold cases in two minutes time. Sherlock One lazily thanked Sherlock Two for his secretariat input on cases he had already solved in under a minute, and proceeded to reorganise his moulds collection (growing in sealed Petri dishes, mostly; although he includes the black mould growing atop the left-hand side window in his collection and won't let Mrs Hudson try to clean it).

It didn't take long until the conflict between great minds escalated to absolute nonsense and, in an apocalyptic, abrupt ending, the two Sherlocks glanced murderously at each other and set off in opposite directions of the flat, leaving me behind in peace and quiet at last.

I kept my smirk bitten down, and pretended to find my book more interesting than their periodical stomping footsteps across the flat, and other tantrum-related minor bursts of activity.

I still haven't got past the first couple of pages on my book. Perhaps a murder mystery would have been a better choice, in hindsight.

 _ **.**_

'What is this, Sherlock? Mrs Hudson won't be happy...'

My mad scientist friend looks my way, surprised. Not as surprised as I am, standing beside a meter wide metal cage containing lab rats frolicking around inside it. It appeared as I was having a shower, possibly couriered in on an urgent delivery. Its purpose is still unknown to me. Inside the cage, the little rodents are all white with red eyes, and all look the same and have the same built, except for one, quieter and fatter, to the side. Sherlock comes to meet me at the kitchen, and looks at the rats casually over my shoulder.

'It's a little show and tell from Mycroft, John.'

'Are they all clones of each other?'

'Technically they are all clones of that lazy one at the corner. Although I could be wrong. Mycroft could have put the fat lazy one in there to represent himself...'

'Or that could be the older rat, while the younger ones represent him at the age when the cells were harvested.'

'Good, John, you're getting the hang of this by now', Sherlock notices quietly.

'And why did your brother want to show us lab rats? You know Mrs Hudson will have a fit for real if she sees them.'

'I thought of that, and told Mrs H not to come upstairs. Not until my clone disintegrates anyway.'

I blink. 'That's why the rats are here, isn't it? Because they have a shorter life span. The cloned rats are about to reach their retirement age...'

'Yeah', Sherlock agrees, absent-mindedly. 'I've been assured it's quite wondrous to watch.'

I frown. _Is any of this remotely believable at all?_ If I weren't watching it with my own eyes...

'Just keep looking, John!' Sherlock baits me, entranced.

Opportunely, in front of us the white rats inside the cage start to fade before our very eyes. Not with falling strengths, no, much on the opposite, they don't seem to be aware of what is going on with them. Slowly the rats are gaining some transparency. In fact, if I focus attentively enough, their tiny hairs seem to glow bright white before disappearing individually into thin air. I'd expect to see their skin underneath showing, but I can't see it. Slowly the rats are becoming see-through. All the while the rats appear content, peaceful, milling about in their business.

'That's incredible', I mutter.

Sherlock glances at me before asking: 'Hold out your hand, John.'

I obey the directive before challenging it, in an unhealthy habit. 'What, wait, why?'

Sherlock takes the palm of my hand and deposits one of the rats he scoops out of the cage. The little clawed feet tickle the palm of my hand as the little thing jittery sniffs me. The rat doesn't seem to be aware that he is dissolving to the Universe, becoming lighter, till there are only a few tiny elemental specks of light and all the weight – and the cloned rat's existence as well – is gone. My hand is empty.

'That's... bloody amazing, Sherlock. And terrifying too.'

'This will happen to all of Mycroft's clones.'

In the cage, the other rats are also doing their own popping away act, leaving the older one behind.

Sherlock turns away briskly, all business-like, and adds, over his shoulder: 'Don't get too attached to the clone, John!'

I smirk, knowing Sherlock is probably still feeling jealous of his clone.

 _ **.**_

I had just popped out to get some fresh milk. Not even with double the usual amount of geniuses in the flat do I get a break from having to get the milk myself. One would easily be mislead into thinking buying milk was an accessible activity for the most genial minds in London; but apparently not, to all available evidence.

By the time I get back, I hear Mrs Hudson's voice floating down the stairwell, from 221B.

Immediately I worry. I hope one of the Sherlocks has had the good sense to go into hiding. It's too much of a shock for the poor old lady to be confronted with, without gentle forewarning. I leave the milk by the bottom of the stairs and hurry two steps at a time to the top.

I'm about to barge in to the flat, hoping to stop the inevitable fit – or medically address it – when I hear Mrs H's casual chat, over the sounds of hand washed crockery: 'Sherlock, dear, I hope you don't mind me saying this. You really overdid the Botox. Now, it's okay, we are all getting older, dear. I should know, after all. Actually, it's really not the wrinkles that get to you as you get to my age, Sherlock, it's all the getting wiser that is the real downer. But, you know, there's not much you can do about that either...'

I think Mrs Hudson has just found the younger clone and immediately spotted the minor age gap. She thinks Sherlock got Botox applied on his face.

I wasn't really prepared for this. I stop short at the entrance to the kitchen, looking at the dotty old lady that is definitely not having a fit. _I'm struggling to find a reason not to tease older Sherlock endlessly over this. Am I really supposed to be the sensible one?_

Suddenly I sense someone behind me. I turn just as Mrs Hudson is already looking over my shoulder. It's Sherlock – the one who actually belongs in Baker Street and not out of some sci-fi pod in a top secret laboratory – and he's showing up of his own accord, as if nothing much. Worried I hurry to look back at Mrs Hudson. She's smiling at Sherlock. The real Sherlock. Relieved. Wait, what did I miss?

'Sherlock...' she reproaches the one behind me. 'Why did you let me make a fool of myself, talking to the other Sherlock like it was you?'

'He is me. In a way.'

Mrs H scowls at him but playfully shakes the tea towel in her hand his way. 'Anyway, young man, just so you know, John will always like you the way you are. Don't go around doing Botox, it's not like the doctor doesn't have a few wrinkles of his own and we love him like that.'

Sherlock looks mildly confused, but decides on shooing the old landlady out of our flat in a hurry; not without some fondness.

'You will keep secret of this?' he still confirms as she's already being coerced down the stairs.

'Of course, dear! Not that anyone would take me seriously, anyway, and I'd might end up on some old folk's nursing home if I told someone!'

I take a sigh of relief, leaning against the doorframe and shutting my eyes tight.

Good old Mrs Hudson. Forget England, Baker Street would fall without her!

 _ **.**_

'Sherlock!' I shout as I enter my room upstairs and find my friend sitting back on my bed, under my covers.

'Yes?' two voices answer me back. One from behind me, at the stairwell, and one from whichever Sherlock is in my bedroom.

'You're the clone?' I try to confirm, first of all, to the one usurping my bed. He rolls his eyes to the notion of being the second-in-command, but nods. I sigh and let my shoulders sag. _Not this prank again!_ 'I don't know who's been messing with you, but Sherlock Holmes and I are not—' I stop short at his reaction, he's rolling his eyes again. Not _that_ , then. _Oh, I get it!_ 'Sherlock is in the bedroom downstairs for the night, and you're taking my room with the only other bed available, and I'm sleeping on the ruddy sofa to accommodate the whims of two self-centred gits. Is that it?' I resume, hardly holding on to my dignity or my temper. He nods, simply. How come I'm not even surprised anymore is more disheartening than anything happening.

I turn to leave, grabbing my dressing gown from the desk's chair and I still hear him call out after me, indulgently: 'John, will you turn off the bedside table light on your way out? I can't stretch that far.'

I bang my room's door shut after me without obliging. Being taken for granted by one Sherlock is enough for me on a daily basis, thank you very much...

As I climb down the stairs, clutching murderously to the dressing gown and fuming silently, I pass the original Sherlock, standing at the landing, looking mildly confused. 'John?'

'I've got no patience for your games tonight, Sherlock. I'm taking sleeping pills. You can do whatever you want to the flat, I won't even stir on the sofa.'

Sherlock, the one I know for longer, frowns concernedly.

'Actually I was about to retire early... John, you are... grumpy.'

I go past him, into the living room.

'Yeah? Well, perhaps I can't quite deal with two of you at once', I mutter and bang another door shut in my wake.

Stopping finally by the long sofa, I'm way too restless. All the day's events and now this abnormal confrontation with Sherlock's usual way of acting (only slightly softened over the years, or so I though; maybe I was fooling myself) gets me pacing up and down the carpet and with no real aim. No, I need to get a grip. I force myself still, I yank my sleeping pills bottle out of the dressing gown's pocket and shove the garment away. Like a small child I fight to get it open, my hands are shaking. When I finally succeed to breach the bottle, the contents fly over the air in all directions, and get scattered over the carpet and floor boards. _Figures!_ I salvage a couple of pills still nestled inside the bottle and dry swallow them. Finally I drop on the sofa, grabbing the afghan blanket and spreading the fraying fabric over me. Head on a pillow, I close my eyes and let my mind drift away. Finally sleep claims me for the night.

Morning comes fast, too fast, after a heavy night's sleep. If Sherlock, the original one, walked about the flat, contemplating leads and theories, I never registered it in my sleep. If he stood near, facing the wall behind the sofa watching architectural prints, scientific diagrams, old sepia photographs, newspaper clips and all those things he pins on the wall, I never noticed either. Just as he will have ignored the sleeping lump that was his flatmate on the sofa.

I get up to a cold silent flat and glance at my wristwatch, that I neglected to take off the night before. Five in the morning. Absent-mindedly I remove the old watch and massage the marked skin on my wrist.

Too early to get up, too late to take another pill. I guess I might be getting insomnias again. Or maybe, I realise, cranking my neck sideways to ease the knot lodged there, I'm just getting too old for the sofa's broken springs.

 _Tea_. Morning will require tea.

As I pass the coffee table I finally take notice of my small bottle standing there. It's full and resealed. Don't remember having picked up the stray pills, but they wouldn't have collected themselves and not one Sherlock would have done that for me. So, mystery solved – must have been me.

I walk away, rubbing my shoulder. Maybe I overreacted last night. I should be used to Sherlock being Sherlock. And I probably wouldn't want to change him – _them_ – anyway.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	29. Chapter 29

_A/N:_ _I've got no wisdom to impart here_ _, that I can think of._ _-csf_

 _Context_ _: What if Mycroft's white lab coat people created a temporary clone of Sherlock? Featuring a time-frozen younger Sherlock who is getting to know John, a short-tempered John, and an original Sherlock who doesn't think he's changed all that much._

* * *

 _ **. 5**_

'John?' There's a soft questioning tone coming from down the corridor, and soon enough padded footsteps on the wooden floors come to meet me in the kitchen. I glance at the incoming Sherlock and, still not particularly merciful, I ask briskly: 'So, _which one_ are you?'

That particular Sherlock reacts with confusion and looks taken aback. 'I take it your shoulder is giving you a hard time this morning', he replies, with no bite.

'Great deduction', I grump, sarcastic. 'Both of you can deduce just fine, so my question still stands.'

I was shooting Whichever Sherlock a dirty look when my hand shook and the heavy boiled kettle fell off its grasp as my clutch on the object just gave away of its own accord. I hiss as some of the scorching water spills over my hand. Whichever Sherlock guides me, cool-headed, to the sink and turns in the cold water over my burn for relief.

'I can make tea', he offers, unexpectedly.

Shaking my head, I assure him: 'It wasn't your fault. It was just a silly accident.' _Sherlock needs to be told these things out loud_ , and his immediate help is easing my suspicion with the whole multiple Sherlocks thing.

'Maybe I want to make tea.'

I squint. 'You still won't tell me which one are you?'

'Does it really make a difference?' he depreciates. 'Don't!' he hastens to stop me as I mean to pull away from the tap. 'You're a doctor, you know you need to keep cooling the affected area longer, John.'

'Why would you care?'

He shrugs. 'Who says I do?'

I can see right through the feigned indifference. This is my friend, the true Sherlock. Furthermore, only the true Sherlock seems to ever have had the patience to quietly let me blow the steam off when I'm aggravated. The most sociopathic detective of London – or so he says – is one for the old adage; no two good partners should be angry at each other _at the same time_.

'Can I go now, Sherlock? The kettle's getting cold', I remark, calmer.

Sherlock nods, still eyeing me closely.

'How did you decide who I am? You haven't paid close attention to scars, wrinkles or any other telltale sign I'm aware of.'

Can't help deducing me all the time, can he? I pull on a brave smile. 'I just knew', I say, refusing to let on my secrets. He keeps all his attention on me. I look away, feeling shy for a moment.

Sherlock is frowning curiously, as if facing a particularly challenging mystery.

'Anyway, John, the clone will take the sofa, tomorrow.'

'Oh, yeah? How come?' Should I be suspicious of my victory?

'Well, he should be closer to the door, given he's the sitting duck, the target, to any incoming bad guy.'

'That's hardly motivating for him.'

'I'll compromise in entering a rota too, John. We can take turns on the sofa. In three days time, when your turn comes up again, there will be no clone, and you can keep to your own bed.'

I smirk tightly. 'Tomorrow night there will be no clone either. How convenient for you.'

Sherlock looks away, seemingly innocent. 'Not my fault, I volunteered, after all.'

'What if he shares your bed? He's _you_ , after all, Sherlock', I suggest, calmer.

'No way! He'll hog all the covers...'

'Yeah...' I agree, with no particular intonation.

I can't help but notice that the clone is less appealing to the real Sherlock now, as he still creates ruffles with the original and sets himself independently apart from the original Sherlock. The Baker Street's consultant is not one to follow leads very well, not even when they come from – _sort of_ – himself.

My Sherlock is also particularly sensitive to the tiny details that set them apart. Especially the age gap and supposed fitness difference. But I think it's got more to do with Sherlock not being able to withstand his trademark abrasive behaviour in others. _Too many divas in the room_ , sort of thing.

Sherlock places two mugs with passable tea in the kitchen table and we both take a seat.

Sipping my tea, I ask my friend: 'So, what do you think of your old self, now you see it in display?'

Sherlock almost flinches at my question. 'Slow, sluggish, not as finely tuned.' I turn to Sherlock – the real one – with perplexity. 'Too much food, too much sleep', he waves his hand dismissively.

 _This is wrong on so many levels._ Come to look at nowadays Sherlock, he looks skinnier than ever. It can't be healthy. I thought we had addressed this. Perhaps we did, _perhaps it just wasn't enough._

Sherlock is sometimes prone to some body dimorphism in the way he views himself. He's not necessarily vain in the usual sense, but he appreciates his own looks with a healthy dose of narcissism. Also, he won't refuse to play on his looks for his work, to gain advantage or leverage.

I've always figured Sherlock's love of haut couture suits and flawless lines in his figure goes in line with the highly demanding way he pushes himself to his limits in everything else he does in life. When engaged on a case, he doesn't eat, sleep, or stop unless his body forces him to. He won't respond to the natural mechanisms of exhaustion, hunger or thirst except at their limits. So I've often tried lecturing him about healthy eating, but found him to be born idle when it comes to managing his own food intake. So I often cook enough for the both of us, but then he's still too busy to eat. I find it's easier to trick him to it, by leaving plates of food lying about, clearly for him, without making a fuss. Whether he eats them by conscious choice or pure distraction, I'm still not sure, but I do what I can to keep Sherlock healthy. _I'm a doctor, after all._

Sherlock has come to depend on that.

 _Or not._ He has lived on his own, chasing Moriarty's network. I don't know the details, as Sherlock refuses to share them, but I don't believe they included healthy, hearty meals at the time.

I look down on my tea mug. Sherlock doesn't need me, _not like that_ , anymore. I don't know why he so desperately wants to keep me close, but in the rare occasions we actually have a fight Sherlock always gives in first. Because he doesn't want me to go. He'll throw away the milk with liver samples, he'll volunteer to hypothetically sleep on the sofa, just to keep me around. He even accepted this clone from his big brother so the risk befalling me is lessened – he won't doubt I'll always protect him, and he's not naïve enough not to know I risk my life at it.

That's why he won't return the clone to the sender, now his copy irritates him. His clone means an easy target, alright. _It also means double the protection act on his old sidekick._ I know that detail has not escaped Sherlock's shrewd mind.

 _ **.**_

'Our friend has a bit of a temper', the clone confides to his original, within earshot of the one he's talking about.

' _Our_ friend?' Sherlock repeats, stopping at that. 'Well, _we_ like to push his buttons, keep him on edge, keep his adrenaline going. And John Watson is much more than', he waves his hand freely in the air as he looks for words, 'warm cups of tea, fluffy jumpers and spiky hair. I wish you'd get to see him in action, he's quite the force to be reckoned with. All this ...peace and quiet... it's a waste on the man. _Right, John?'_

I sigh. He knows I'm listening from the other side of the room. Sherlock is messing with me again, as openly as I've never seen before, because after all his accomplice is a version of himself, with a due date. One thing Sherlock is impeccably right about; he's getting my adrenaline up.

'Sherlock, don't mess with me. _Soldier_ , remember?' I warn from behind my laptop, where I'm pecking at the keys at high speed.

Sherlock confides to his clone, still in earshot: 'He's also a blogger, but you'd never know that just by looking at him.'

The clone squints. 'He has managed to avoid the telltale signs of flattened fingertips resultant of typing too much, by reducing his speed considerably. That's a brilliant example of self-control!'

'No, that's just John's best skills, I'm afraid', Sherlock counters, falsely pained.

I roll my eyes and think of poor Mrs Hudson. _She's so fond of Sherlock, she'd miss him terribly._

'Speaking of blogs', I remind them, 'you two should be able to solve double the amount of cases. None of you is on holidays, get it?'

My Sherlock deflects: 'But John, all those clients are so commonplace, their crimes have no flair, no element of–'

The clone interrupts, curiously: 'You can get clients from a blog? Can I see the blog?'

Sherlock whiplashes his neck to face his clone at once.

I'm smirking, as I can sense the competition escalating between those two, who were best friends just a moment ago. I shouldn't have been surprised, if Sherlock was going to along so well with someone, it'd have to be with himself, following some narcissistic streak in him. Now, so soon, the two are clashing opponents, fighting over who's the best detective – the one of today, or the cold rational machine of a few years ago. The world can benefit from a little feud. Together they could sort out Scotland Yard's cold cases archives in a week.

Too bad Mycroft won't lend us the clone for a full week, in Scotland Yard's benefit.

'You'd get bored by the clients' over emotional narratives, Duplicate.'

'Nevertheless, I'm sure I could solve some cases, Original.'

'We can't take the chance they'll notice you are not me.'

'What do you mean? _I am you!'_

I get up quietly from my armchair and hand over my laptop to the clone as I walk out.

At least London should benefit from Mycroft's ethics-bending sci-fi frolics.

My best friend stomps out of the living room, outraged by my supposed betrayal. I think he goes down to Mrs H to tell on me. I sigh and try to preserve whatever sanity I have left as I go up to my room.

 _ **.**_

Living with two Sherlocks should be detrimental to one's mental sanity, according to Greg. Molly, on the other hand, upon hearing of the latest, just bit her lower lip in worry. She was still biting her lip whenever she wasn't speaking as I left the morgue with a couple of cold cases with Greg's agreement – one for each Sherlock.

I'm shrugging off all of their well-meant commiseration. The way I see it, I'm quite lucky. Not only do I get to have Sherlock in my life (the one I once thought I had lost forever to Death), I have his clone to keep me company when the real Sherlock is too absorbed in his work to even notice I'm there. My best friend hasn't done that much lately, but he can't really help himself. If Sherlock is deeply entranced by his scientific, forensic or murder-mystery studies and I take a seat, tiredly, by the fireplace after a long working day, the clone can come over to keep me company, right? I know the clone likes my cups of tea too; most likely he's as bad at tea making as my original friend. _I always make three cuppas now._

The real Sherlock is getting a bit jealous, I can tell, but what doesn't kill the genius will make him stronger. Perhaps he'll come to value my presence better.

Meanwhile, what my best friend cannot understand is that, no matter the shared genes pool, the two identical looking men are not so similar in their personalities. They have diverged since the initial stem cell collection, they have walked different paths, evolved differently. The clone was brutally naïve, a childish brat and emotionally unstable when he got brought to Baker Street. Now he's settled down and has become more tranquil, if still as much a brat. He's a nice guy, I like him. He's funny to have around, even when the joke is at my expense.

But he and I haven't shared what the older Sherlock and I have. We haven't bonded the same. When desperate, drastic measures are taken, when you can only rely on one person in this world, when you are all someone has as well, there's a deep unspoken bond that forms between two friends. It's something you can never shrug off, it's ever lasting. The clone and I don't share that in-depth connection that the real Sherlock sees in us, and is so jealous about.

But I'll let the original genius suffer some more. Make sure he learns to appreciate me some more.

 _ **.**_

One hour and forty-five minutes have past since I brought the competing geniuses cold cases' data from the morgue. Molly chose the cases well, for the two Sherlocks are relentlessly trying to work out the circumstances of the two John Does' deaths. Foul play is a given; and if it wasn't, the two genius would despise the simplicity of the cases and refuse to believe in their straightforwardness, burning themselves to find alternative – and complex – more satisfying answers.

 _Unless Molly is getting payback, at last._ Maybe the two cases really are actually so simple that the two detectives refuse to face the obvious. I wouldn't put it past Molly to know her Sherlocks this well.

I've been making some Italian pasta for lunch, quite sure that even sulky old geniuses and temporary clones need feeding. True to form, both of them have perked up to the smell spreading from the stove. I have decided to excel at this dish so to cut down the refusals – _"My transport doesn't require food for another couple of days, John!"_ – and, going for the extra mile, I've gone down to borrow some fresh herbs from Mrs Hudson's window sill.

I may as well could have stayed downstairs. As I came up there was Sherlock – whichever one – licking experimentally the wooden spoon, coated with the sauce, and then returning it to the pan.

'John won't be happy with that', the other Sherlock says, languidly, from the armchair. 'Now he won't have it. He's a doctor and has all these puritanical notions about what is sanitary and what is not.'

 _Yeah, it's called "common sense", Sherlock._

'Drop it!' the other Sherlock spats out. 'Doesn't affect you. We are the same, remember?'

 _Sherlock is always grumpy when he's hungry and it smells of food he likes._

The detective sitting down rebuts: 'I wouldn't be too sure. I don't know what you've been licking these last few years since the cells harvest.'

The real Sherlock drops the wooden spoon and mutters mysteriously: 'That was only once!'

The clone looks at me, accusingly. As if I'm to keep his future self in better control from now on? I sigh and rub my face. _Why don't I order take away?_

'Great idea, John!' Sherlock says out loud, grabbing the pan off the stove and eating from it directly with the spoon. Forget the herbs, it has already got Sherlock's approval. So much so, that he's snatched it before his clone could.

'How did you read my mind?' I ask, in suspicion.

'Chinese, from the restaurant round the corner. Duplicate will love it. He hasn't tried it yet. Wasn't open when he was created. And the owner always gives this address extra portions since I saved his life from that circus mafia. Curious case, that was. Duplicate, you must ask John about it one day. John's the one who makes the case sound romanticised, adventurous and thrilling, when in fact it was exceedingly simple.'

I smirk. Was that a compliment? A hidden thanks for the food?

 _Geniuses. Can't live with them and can't live without._

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	30. Chapter 30

_A/N: You know you've been dieting for too long when you start mentioning food more often in your stories. (Sigh.) -csf_

 _Context_ _: What if Mycroft's white lab coat people created a temporary clone of Sherlock? Featuring a time-frozen younger Sherlock who is getting to know John, a short-tempered John, and an original Sherlock who doesn't think he's changed all that much._

* * *

 _ **. 6**_

'John, a case! A case!'

Once again I marvel at the jovial, untarnished happiness that emanates in leaps and bounds from the engaged detective. Sherlock Holmes is wasted on the down times. His contagious and beautiful energy, bursting full of life, is mesmerizing to this old soldier. It channels Sherlock's true gifts and I see happiness vibrating through him as he barely contains himself to ensure my participation on the case.

I scold my features into a more socially acceptable composure. 'An unfortunate murder?' I lead on.

'Better, John!' he ignores my societal lesson. Smiling maniacally he explains. 'Spontaneous combustion! Oh, I love a good old classic scientific myth to debunk...' His eyes soften as he catches the humour at the corner of my lips. Grabbing my jacket of the door hanger for me, it's softly that he suggests: 'You may want to make notes on the record of this case, John.' Arrogantly assuming he'll solve the case that baffles Scotland Yard as much as he's including me in the picture – _"because I need a blogger, John!"_ Then over the shoulder he adds to the grumpy clone: 'We've got a murder!'

I'd swear it takes the normally lazy clone less than a couple of seconds to scramble from the main bedroom to our side in the living room. Perhaps he was already eavesdropping. It'd certainly explain the indecent glow he's already sporting as he joins us.

'Let's go', I tell the double detective team, not even bothering to hide my smile anymore. _We're hopeless._

At once they both reach for the long coat hanging behind the living room door. They freeze midway, measuring each other coldly.

'It's a nice coat', the clone says, tactfully.

'It's my coat', Sherlock corrects.

'I'll toss you a coin for it', the clone says.

'Deal! You get tails, I've got a better head', the real genius demands childishly.

'I don't trust you. You'll use a rigged coin.'

'I don't trust you either.'

They both turn to me at the same time.

 _Hmm..._ I fish out a coin from my pocket, flip it, find myself being scrutinized as if I was detained for spying related charges by an enemy foreign nation, and let it land on my hand. _Tails_. The clone gets the use of the coat.

Sherlock huffs, grabs my coin to double-check it has got two sides, sends a death stare to the clone getting the beloved long coat on, and pockets my coin without remorse. All before we even leave Baker Street.

 _ **.**_

DI Greg Lestrade wanted to have a word with me, privately. So as his team takes a five minutes break and we leave behind two eager Sherlocks to their own devices, Greg and I stand at the four storey building's entrance, watching lazily the rotating blue emergency light his police vehicle projecting its colour all around.

Greg looks like he could use a smoke right now. He recalls between us: 'Sherlock was sniffing the dead body, John.'

 _Well, yes; yes he was._ I cringe. He saw that too. 'Valid investigative tool, he says. Smells could indicate the presence of a known catalyst for the combustion.'

'He was smelling a corpse, John', Greg deadpans. 'So was the clone.'

Don't really know why the experienced detective inspector thought a true copy of our friend would act in a more socially acceptable manner.

'Sherlock suspects a chemical reaction took place. A violently exothermic one. Given that the victim was a chemist, we might actually be dealing with an elaborate suicide.'

'No note was left behind.'

'The method was the note, I suspect. You told me he got fired for negligence. Maybe he wanted to prove he was good at what he did for a living in his last choices.' I sigh and a cold shiver rattles from the inside out. Greg notices it at once.

'Are you alright, mate?' I nod hastily as an answer. He suspects, loyally: 'The two Sherlocks are driving you round the bend already?'

I chuckle. 'Actually, no. I'm getting used to it by now.'

'I'm really sorry to hear that, mate', he mocks my lost sanity. _Inevitable_ , according to him.

'No, really, Sherlock–'

I don't get to finish my rebuttal as the sound of a struggle erupts from an open window at the second floor's stairwell landing. We can still catch a glimpse of Sherlock's iconic long coat before the detective is shoved back against the glass so forcibly that it cracks all across. The detective then circles the criminal – the murderer defending himself then, and not a suicide after all – and it's him who comes close to the window. By my side, down at the sidewalk, Greg is shouting confusing orders to his phone, ordering his team back, his unsure aim of the gun drawn in his hand won't produce any results. He looks at me, shocked, and only then I realise I've started shouting my friend's name, loud enough for the whole street to hear. That's when another Sherlock comes rushing down to the entrance door from inside the building, appearing breathless and distraught, looking straight at me, worried about my condition. I look up at the endangered Sherlock on the second floor. That Sherlock there wears the long coat – he's the clone.

I realise that doesn't comfort me in the least. I take an unsteady step forward, not sure on what to do, before I spin on my feet and grab Greg's gun out of his hand. I aim it confidently at the cracked stairwell window but before I lock my aim the clone beyond the thick glass makes his own choice. He charges against the murderer and their combined weight crashes the glass behind the man. They dive head on to the outside thin air.

Next thing I know, Sherlock, the ground bound one, pulls me out of the way of the incoming shower of glass shards, and down comes the criminal – and the clone, calculatedly (if one can believe that in such a short notice) landing over the criminal that softens the fall. The real Sherlock lets go of me and I hurry to the fallen men, hasting to assess them medically. The criminal has a severe head trauma and the clone coughs slightly as he tries to get up cautiously, grabbing his side.

'Well, that was fun', he comments nonchalantly.

I look over at Greg, summoning a couple of ambulances to the scene. Behind him the true Sherlock Holmes hides from public sight in the shadows of the building's entrance.

The clone stopped the murderer – quite spectacularly – but what was my friend doing instead of helping him?

As I'm measuring the clone's elevated pulse I realise the real Sherlock rushed downstairs to protect me and Greg Lestrade, something that his old self wouldn't have thought of as fast instead of effectively solving the case.

 _ **.**_

Due to the (almost self-inflicted) injuries, Sherlock Two takes the main bedroom's bed. He's got a few moderately bruised ribs and a childish attitude to accompany them. He demands"chicken broth", a "fluffier blanket" (his description, not mine) and "some juicy cold cases from the Yard" – all of which he gets in due time.

As for the real Sherlock, I'd expect him to sulk around Baker Street for not being the centre of attention or, more honestly, for not having been him to triumphantly finish the case. The clone – the young version of himself – outwitted him in the case solving skills, in that not rare category of cases that gets solved by sheer dumb luck.

I guess I was wrong. Sherlock has quietly taken upon himself the mission of mooching cases from Greg Lestrade (after the public relations nightmare that was the clone's action filled case solving) and has even ordered us all take away for dinner.

 _Sherlock is sometimes a bit of an emotional eater when he's out of his depth – like after those Americans hurt Mrs Hudson._

After a meal the real Sherlock calms down and even takes up his violin, drawing peaceful melodies of his own creation out of the rich wooden instrument and the taut silky strings. Somehow he seems to have relished in the temporary fortune of having two of him to solve cases; and keep his friends safe as well.

Eventually the clone complains he can't nod off (being as poorly as he is!) and Sherlock relocates his violin soliloquy upstairs to my room, not even stopping as he goes up the stairs, as if that gave him the last word.

I sigh and take a tired seat at the kitchen's table, with the microscope to keep me company, and the odd biohazardous sample on a slide. Rescuing a pint from the fridge I open the can and fill my cup to the proverbial half full, half empty optimistic, pessimistic dichotomy. I seat there, pondering my weird life over a paradoxical pint of cold lager.

That's when I hear the soft unlock of the downstairs bedroom door. The clone comes out, his light footsteps muffled by his sock cladded feet.

'You should rest, Sherlock', I tell him, without looking up.

'I'm the clone', he alerts me, after a stunned pause.

'I know. Still the same. I mean, you two are the same.' Finally I look up.

He frowns, the pessimistic version of the filled glass in his mind. _And this Sherlock doesn't know about Harry._ I guess he can't deduce the Watsons can hold their liquor a bit better than that. Anyway, I haven't drunk yet, but I won't bother telling a world renowned investigator the obvious. Not today, at least.

Today I saw my friend fall from a second storey window. Luckily he survived.

'You've got only another day around us. Then you disintegrate, or whatever it is', I notice.

He nods, and comes to take the chair opposite me.

'It's what I've been brought here to do', he hastens to answer my silent question of _why did you risk your life today?_

I roll the pint glass in my hand, the white foam ring atop the amber liquid dragging with prejudice against the cold glass wall.

'I've been on the battlefield. I've seen soldiers elated to face possible death for a cause. More often than not, I've seen soldiers holding in their fear that every mission would be their last one...' I look up, straight at those aquamarine eyes that shine just like my best friend's. Once again I feel humbled by Sherlock's choices (and his clone's alike). 'I just wanted to let you know that it's alright to be afraid. It's what keeps us from doing stupid things for no good reason, keeps our reflexes sharp and the colours bright.' I smirk a bit to add: 'It's what keeps us humble.'

The clone nods quietly in the only external acknowledgement that he has heard my words. No clue on whether he actually _listened_ , or pondered their practical experience based wisdom. I should have known better than trying to humanise too fast this Sherlock 1.0 version. It took the real Sherlock years to open up to me – slightly. I don't have enough time. Why don't I drop this robotic version of my friend I don't know. My mind is perhaps deceived as it would feel like abandoning my real best friend, and I don't want to do that.

'I'm not afraid', the clone finally says out loud. 'I have a mission.'

I nod. I said the same thing often enough in the sandy landscapes of war.

'Didn't say you were. I said it'd be perfectly alright to be afraid. At some point. Eventually. If at all.'

He relaxes minutely as I defuse the conversation, and he nods again.

I wouldn't doubt Sherlock's heroism and selfless bravery. It's perfectly clear on his clone's choices too.

And his compassion.

The clone leans over to me with a troubled expression. 'I'm a spirit, John. A temporary physical manifestation of someone else that already exists. I'm little more than an alternative reality. My _feelings_ ' – he too seems to despise the word and what it stands for – 'are but the reflexes of someone else's too. Of your best friend, in fact. I'll do and act like he would. If you believe me in need of your support, you should perhaps offer it to the Original.' He scrunches his face in bitterness. 'I suspect he might enjoy it, heavens forbid!'

I let him walk out of the kitchen with that tirade, drowning a smirk in my pint. That may have come as close to Sherlock admitting he likes my meddling as I'll ever get.

 _ **.**_

The next morning, feeling a bit guilty for having taken turns with the real Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street for the long sofa, and knowing of close personal experience the two broken springs on the seats, that stabbed me on the neck and the thigh, I made sure to prepare Sherlock (actually both Sherlocks) a conciliatory coffee. Strong, sugared and lightened with a generous dash of milk is my friend's taste. I carry it in one hand and a buttered toast on the other as I approach the snoring, sleeping detective.

He wakes from his light sleep with an interrupted choked snore and he snaps his eyes open straight at me. He relaxes as fast as he had tensed himself up and he's already flashing me a very brief smile before taking a quick glance around to locate himself. I bend over and deposit his breakfast at the coffee table to give him some extra time to gather himself.

I guess he was sleeping deeper than I thought. Sherlock doesn't usually require a great amount of sleeping hours, but when he switches off he often falls into a deep sleep, quite unresponsive to external noises, events, comings and goings. I've long suspected it's one reason why he doesn't like to sleep, which aggravates the cycle of sleep deprivation and deep exhausted slumbers.

'Don't need breakfast', he grumps at last, rubbing his face. I take pity on my overworked friend.

'Of course you don't.'

'Don't patronize me.'

'Don't give me reasons then', I respond in the same conversational tone of his. He grumps and raises himself to reach the mug and sit up. Sherlock halts unexpectedly, hand frozen reaching out, as with the other hand he guards his mid section, tensing over.

'Did you hurt yourself? Was it a broken spring?' I try to understand, immediately coming closer. _I'm a doctor, damn it, Sherlock will have no luck pushing me away._

'One spring was poking my shoulder and the other an unmentionable place, it wasn't a spring, John.' As he sees me confusedly looking at the sofa he explains: 'I'm taller than you, John.' He sips a bit of coffee and adds thoughtfully: 'Might have been Mycroft's doing, to keep me up, solving the MI6's mess-ups...'

I smile to accompany his humour, but I worry more as I see him recoil somewhat just from swallowing the lukewarm beverage.

'Okay, Sherlock, you know the routine; clothes off!'

He glances at me with a twinkle in his eye. 'And you wonder why people talk...'

'Very funny', I state in an unamused tone of voice as I help him out of his navy blue shirt of the day before. He still flinches as the last piece of fabric slides from his arm and shoulder, leaving behind a vast area of soft pale skin, marred with several old looking scars left as souvenirs of our work together. The bigger portion of his ribs area from front to the left side, however, is tainted with deep purples and reds.

I look up at Sherlock's eyes, unbelieving. The scars prove what I know instinctively; this is my best friend, the old Sherlock Holmes. _The bruises, however, are just like the clone's._

'We didn't swap places', Sherlock says very fast, before I can get a chance to be upset. In his haste he completely disregards that I can see the white scar over his heart until I reach out to touch it. He looks down, relaxing at once to my touch, as if he could have doubted I'd believe him, or who he was as he woke up today.

'You've got the Duplicate's bruising too', I verbalize.

'It would seem so', he tries to sound indifference and tries for a more comfortable position. 'Mirrored pain. It'd seem that whenever the clone gets hurt, I get hurt too... Oh, I bet this is Mycroft's doing, so I wouldn't kill his precious clone!'

'Sherlock', I try to call him to reason, 'this is too serious for brotherly feuds.'

'Clearly you don't have enough faith in the Holmes family, John... I wonder if it works the other way around too', Sherlock ponders, absorbedly. 'We should wake up the clone and–' He almost jumps as I pinch his arm.

From the bedroom there appears to be no reaction while I was harsh enough on Sherlock to wake a sleeping man.

'Apparently not', I conclude as Sherlock is brushing his fingers over the area, looking at me suspiciously.

'How about a fair warning the next time?'

'Might skew the results', I say, taking over the mad scientist role for once. And a page from Sherlock's book.

Still eyeing me suspiciously as a child with his feelings hurt, Sherlock nevertheless allows me to medically examine his bruises. Like the clone's, in a mind blowing carbon copy of the earlier diagnosis, no bone is broken.

'If this is your brother's doing, it's really stupid, even for Mycroft. After all the clone is supposed to step in as your bodyguard.'

'Definitely intriguing, particularly the referred pain's delay', Sherlock comments, all analytical coldness restored to his demeanour. 'I'll make my brother aware of this development in due time', he promises lazily.

He may not have the time. Right now I want to transfer the bruises all across this particular generation of Holmes. Mycroft Holmes would just complete the set...

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	31. Chapter 31

_A/N: Well, this took longer than expected. Sorry. Hope this is okay after such a long wait. As always, I'm still not British or a writer – nor have ever been cloned (to my knowledge). -csf_

 _Context_ _: What if Mycroft's white lab coat people created a temporary clone of Sherlock? Featuring a time-frozen younger Sherlock who is getting to know John, a short-tempered John, an original Sherlock who doesn't think he's changed all that much, and a big brother with some explaining to do._

* * *

 _ **. 7**_

'Mycroft.'

My eerily quiet voice echoes in Mycroft's top secret, concrete walled office. Only the two of us there, and one sci-fi blunder to set up straight as far as I'm concerned.

Not even half an hour ago I found out that when the clone of my best friend gets hurt – I mean, seriously, painfully hurt – his original feels part of the pain. The shared manifestation of ache is both mental (my friend is sore and careful with his movements) as it is physical (the clone's deep tissue bruising is also visible in the other Sherlock, the one who is my best friend). It's as if they were still one and only as far as their bodies are concerned.

 _What an ironic way of making a point: there can ever only be one Sherlock Holmes._

It's almost as if the cell's shared gene pool had transferred the pain across to the other sister cells, not recognising that at the present moment they belong to two distinct, separate, fully independent versions of Sherlock. This finding is something I should renegade and deny with all my medical expertise; but if walking the world by Sherlock's side has taught me something, it has to be to keep an open mind to science. Even when it encompasses genetically modified gigantic hounds in Dartmoor.

 _Actually, Dartmoor is quite probably the birthplace of our cloned Sherlock._ No wonder they never allowed us to go all the way down to the basement when we were there...

'John.' Sherlock's older brother finally looks up from his desk. Mycroft Holmes must have thought he could wear me out by patiently extending time between us. _No way. I'm stubborn when it comes to protecting my friends._ 'I didn't expect you here so soon', he comments offhandedly, in his usual top-mannered, unctuous ways, as if they were an intentional prolongation of his three piece suits.

I squint and my fists ball up before I know it. _I've got a score to settle, after all._

'You knew I'd find out', I advance. Nothing better to make a Holmes talk than a vague, imprecise cue.

Mycroft smirks from his metaphorical high horse stance, across the table where no papers lay. His work is too secret for notebooks. I don't even trust there will be papers in the filing cabinet to his left. Everything around us is fabricated, like on a stage. Even Mycroft, the actor, fits the same play and is not afraid to sustain it with a monologue.

'I'm afraid you lost me already, John', he says. But looks hooked, nonetheless.

'You were never lost', I snap back, angry. 'You planned it all.'

His smirk turns a bit smug. 'If you say so, John, who am I to deny such foresight? Although I should probably inform you that I'm not yet aware of what you are referring to, doctor Watson...' At the end of his plea for further clarification he sighs dramatically.

I squint. I'm much too honest to keep secrets and enjoy the momentary upper hand when I'm feeling hot-headed. 'The referred pain mechanism from the clone, back to your brother; didn't you plan it?'

Mycroft's face remains absolutely controlled, even lacquered in an indifference mask. 'So what if I did?' he admits it, marginally. _The smug idiot actually admits it to me!_

'The bloody clone is supposed to protect Sherlock's life, no? How can he do that if Sherlock feels whatever happens to him?'

Big brother just tilts his head sideways, amused. 'As Sherlock's regular protector I thought you'd be more appreciative, John. Often you are the one getting hurt in the line of your perceived duty, and where is my brother after that? Frolicking around some new crime scene while you wait for yours stitches to heal, for your bones to fuse back together, for your pain to ebb away?'

I step forward in the short distance between us and lower my voice to a dangerous captain Watson tone: 'There's a fundamental difference, Mycroft.'

'Is there?'

'Yes', I sibilate the _Ss_ venomously. 'The difference is that it's my choice to put my life in danger. _My choice_.'

Mycroft gets up. Taller than me, that change in posture gains him some strategic advantage back. _Just some, not much to impress me._ 'You are a person, John. He is a clone. Or are you forgetting that?' He looks me in the eye and reads me with as much apparent ease as his brother. 'Good grief, are you trying to advocate for a clones work syndicate of sorts? Health benefits for all deployed clones? What's next, retirement pensions? That might be a bit harder considering that they disintegrate after a few days.'

I take a deeper breath. Mycroft hasn't even noticed his mistake. He spilled the beans. There are other clones out there. Who knows? Politicians, actors, sports players, the Queen?

My goodness, _am I even talking to the right Mycroft Holmes?_ I step back, instinctively.

Sherlock's older brother rolls his eyes creepily. 'A touch of paranoia there, John?' he mocks acidly. 'Be assured I'm the real Mycroft Holmes.'

'I bet that's what all the other Mycrofts say.'

His newfound smirk is kinder than his trademark one. 'Indeed it would be. But, alas, I deemed it too dangerous to have more of me, spread around London; not with my level of power and knowledge over the contemporary events.'

'You're doing shit on those', I let out, still a bit hot-headed.

His face bitters at once. 'Yes', he admits slowly. 'Hence I cannot let my baby brother's dangerous exploits distract me. Therefore I got him a clone to keep him protected. It was certainly not to replace you, doctor Watson, you are fitting enough. However, I needed to assure two things. That the clone would not rebel on me and walk away, bored out of his wits, for one...'

My fists unclench automatically. Curiously I ask: 'How would you ensure the clone wouldn't desert the mission, as you say, and go measure out something daft like the rate of decomposition of buried coffins by wood type and maker?'

Mycroft blinks. 'Sherlock's latest blog entry, I gather?' he asks in confidence.

'If we don't get caught grave-robbing before he's finished with his research, yes.'

'You've got my sympathy, John...' He looks away for a second, tidying up his stoic desk, matching all the ninety degree angles of the objects on it. 'That wasn't too hard, John. The clone wouldn't have left because I gave him something to be curious about.'

'I don't get it.'

'The clone does, though. The clone knows he's being played, but like the real Sherlock, his curiosity is too strong to overcome. The clone is intrigued by your friendship with the real Sherlock. That's why he stays.'

'He'd even put his life at stake to figure us out?'

Mycroft looks straight at me. 'Well, hasn't he?' he points out the evidence, smugly. 'Then, my other obstacle was Sherlock himself. I needed to make sure my brother wouldn't use the clone as his guinea pig for poisons, bruising, asphyxia, the lot. With you around as a doctor to save the clone's life every time, the range of experiments was frankly alarming.'

'He wouldn't...' I state at once.

'Wouldn't he?' Mycroft looked me straight in the eyes, as if demanding full disclosure. I can't do that; so I keep quiet.

'You see now that I needed to protect the clone from my brother's destructive ways. The only logical safeguarding option was to transfer the pain across the duplicate and original.'

'The pain is delayed', I point out. 'Not much of a pedagogic tool.'

'The clone might have to give his life for Sherlock's. If the pain was transferred in its full immediate form across the chain, it would defeat the purpose.'

 _Oh._ I guess he thought it through. Still...

I cross my arms in front of me. 'What if Sherlock just pulled my gun in an argument with his other self and shot him?'

'Oh, my brother wouldn't', Mycroft answered, looking suddenly wary, as if the conversation had become too trite. He sits down and presses the button of a small intercom, to call Anthea, before he explains. 'Not while the clone's presence is keeping those in Baker Street safe.'

I blink, Anthea is already coming up behind me. 'Hello', I shoot over the shoulder to acknowledge her, but I won't budge, I really will not, till he explains himself fully. 'What do you mean, keep us safe? How can the clone's presence keep us safe when we don't even know who is threatening Sherlock?'

He keeps silent.

 _Oh. They know more than I do. As usual._

'I believe you have some conversation to catch-up with my brother, John', he dismisses me more obviously with a hand wave. Anthea comes closer. And we all know she is jiu-jitsu proficient. And I wouldn't hit a woman.

'Are you telling me _he knows_ who is after him? That _he has known_ all this time?'

'Anthea, give the man a cigar on his way out. I do believe he got the right answer.'

'Don't get smart with me', I snap; couldn't care less about the contained audience in the small bunker-like office.

Anyway, Anthea is probably enjoying herself. Hardly anyone defies big Mycroft Holmes.

'I'm saying', he stops his tidying up and trails strong eyes on mine, 'my brother has known all along, John. Sherlock is no fool. He does, however, enjoy a bit too much a touch of the dramatic, and he has been using the clone to the best of his abilities for its limited duration. Now that time is running out, he'll need to confront the threats... and finding you here, instead of at my brother's side, does not ease my mind, John.'

'The bastard!' I say, with a light gasp.

'Yes, I designate him in a similar manner all the time. Except in our parents presence, of course. Once, when I was seven—'

I ignore the start of his autobiography at once, turning to the door. _Sherlock's in danger, I need to head back to Baker Street._ Behind me, I know Mycroft is smirking in his funny, sniggering little way, so I won't even turn to face him again. I can still hear him direct: 'Anthea, give our unfortunate doctor a lift back to Baker Street, the limousine will be indefinitely faster than the tube at rush hour.'

I take the faster ride with no ill feelings, as he expected. _He's alright, Mycroft Holmes, when it comes to protecting his younger brother._ Makes me wonder if I haven't been talking to a Mycroft clone all along, and the real Mycroft is taking a patisserie course in Paris, or something.

 _ **.**_

' _Sherlock!'_

I climbed the stairs up to 221B two at a time and as I got up here my breathing is disconcerted and my heart rate is up. I'm greeted by the immediate sight of the two Sherlocks, looking all mundane and peaceful. One is still holding up the violin and bow, the other looks up from a music score he's writing. Well, I guess the real Sherlock will be whichever one is doing the creative process right now, taking the lead.

 _Could be either of them._

'What is it, John?' the one holding the violin asks me. I stop myself short, suspicious. Tired too. How can I trust this one? If what Mycroft said is true, then I can hardly trust the Sherlock I knew longer, because he won't stop at common decency or other, from betraying my trust.

'John?' the lookalike calls me out too.

I sigh and lower my head to my hand, feeling drained, confused and defeated all at once. I need a few moments to collect myself, now I know the both of them are unharmed. All the adrenaline rush that kept me angered as I confronted Mycroft, and later kept me worried as I rushed back to save _any_ skinny genius life, is draining from me. Focusing with all my might on a small stain at the edge of the carpet, as I even out my breathing, I can hear their immediate carrying on:

'Now you've done it, idiot!'

'Me? I'm not the one who came waltzing in here and changed our lives! Wasn't it cosy enough for you in the laboratory with the gamma rays and the white mice?'

'It was just fine, thank you, and I was playing a very nice game of chess against myself. But _you_ had to get yourself in harm's way, hadn't you?'

'It's what we do!' the real Sherlock defends, out of breath and indignant. 'God, you are so lazy! Playing with yourself?'

'I beat all the other clones around, they won't play anymore. And anyway, you can call off the secret now. John knows it, thanks to Mycroft. He knows there's a killer after you, courtesy of your babbling brother.'

' _Our_ brother.'

'Don't really want him, you keep him', he replies, nonchalant.

'John may have not been to see Mycroft at all.'

'Oh, please! It's all there, in the creases on the front of his shirt. That level of contained anger? That's a Mycroft Holmes' level of contained anger, right there.'

'Easy for you to talk, you only have to put up with him for three days, you know...' Sherlock protests, with a grudge.

The clone chuckles, revengefully, as my best friend sighs desperately.

I briskly turn and walk away from the impossible pair. I need to collect my gun from my room anyway. Then there will be tea. Baker Street might just run out of tea before I let the two geniuses go from explaining to me quite thoroughly all they know.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	32. Chapter 32

_A/N: Again, this took longer than expected. I keep on saying Sorry... Also, this has become longer than I ever expected. Sorry for that as well. -csf_

 _Context_ _: What if Mycroft's white lab coat people created a temporary clone of Sherlock? Featuring a time-frozen younger Sherlock who is getting to know John, a short-tempered John, and an original Sherlock who possibly has not changed all that much._

* * *

 _ **. 8**_

'So... you _knew_ who was after you, all this time, and you told me nothing, Sherlock', I start, as I pace 221B's living room in tired circles. First I confronted Mycroft Holmes, now it's his baby brothers' turn.

My friend the genius detective looks up from his microscope and mysterious slides with preparations, furrowed brow and a bit puzzled. 'Yes, of course I've known, John.'

He sees no betrayal of my confidence with his actions, and it terrifies me – again – that my best friend can be, at times, so oblivious to another's feelings.

Suddenly Sherlock senses my disapproval and rolls his eyes and complains loudly: 'Don't be so touchy, John!'

I give him an evil eye. _Former soldier here, remember?_

'John, you're missing the point.'

'No, I think you are', I warn him in full disclosure.

He leans forward, cat-like, on the table between us.

'Of course I knew who was after me, John. One of the many who would like to do me in, by the way. There are always dark foes lurking in the shadows. Moriarty's disappearance only opened new opportunities for the next wanna-be criminal mastermind. I keep tabs on all of them. I make sure Baker Street is a safe place, for you and me. And if I was going to take advantage of my duplicate, I needed to be assured that this half-wit with a credible threat against me wouldn't strike early. So of course I knew, John. It's my job to know, I'm an investigator. _I always know._ '

I stare dumbfounded at the detective. I hadn't quite seen it that way. How many planned attacks on his life get foiled by him and big brother on a regular basis? The image of Sherlock Holmes has grown beyond the confinements of this dingy all-in-one flat, laboratory, office and refuge. If Sherlock keeps me oblivious to the scale of the threat it mustn't be because he doesn't trust me; he does, I've ample proof of that, every time we risk our lives together. It was a white lie by omission, a selfless offer to protect my innocence and peace of mind. After all, to tell a former soldier with a certain dose of innate paranoia (and a diagnosis of ptsd in his past to enhance it) that he is under constant danger is perhaps as much of a burden as it is the overstatement of an obvious fact.

'Sorry', I end up saying, all anger deflated out of me now.

'Don't be', he snaps easily, with no hard feelings. 'I lied to you, John. You have reasons to be angry. You tell me friends don't lie to each other.'

'You did it for good reasons, though. I understand it now.' I forgive him fully.

He smirks. 'Do try to be consistent in your pedagogical approach, John. You can be rather inconsistent in your societal rules at times.' He pushes my buttons, unabashedly.

I force a smile upon my face. 'Every rule has an exception, Sherlock.'

He looks back down on the oculars of his microscope, and hums deeply, in agreement.

'By the way, what is that?'

He looks back up to me, looking like a kid caught in mischief. Before I can sternly make him tell me _what has he done now_ , the clone comes storming in on the living room, holding up his left arm to his chest and wearing an outraged expression. 'What have you done to our bodies? Why is my arm sore?' he asks, thunderously.

I look back at the first Sherlock, utterly confused. He shrugs and replies as nothing much: 'Referred pain, that's all. I took a blood sample from myself to look at under the microscope. I trust you won't refuse me yours, so I can compare them. All totally scientific, of course' he adds, languidly, indifferent to his fake twin's anger.

'Well, you're lousy at drawing blood. Why didn't you ask John, he's a doctor!'

'I'm getting better at it every day, don't be so whinny and cough up your blood already!'

The clone crosses his arms in front of him. 'I won't, you don't know how to do it properly!'

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'It's really just a kind of psychosomatic pain, if you don't have the nerve damage to warrant pain in the first place. Ask John, he knows a lot about psychosomatic pain...'

I groan, rubbing my face with the palm of my hand.

'John, will you do it?' the clone asks me hopefully. I glance over at the real Sherlock; he looks eager as well. After all transferred pain is a two way street. I give in, as the two of them both knew very well I would. I always give in when it comes to any Sherlock Holmes.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock's secondary school category of microscope is not as powerful as he'd hope for, and soon the clone leaves Baker Street with two samples of their bloods to be analysed by doctor Molly Hooper. The clone as fairly motivated to get this joined scientific quest solved by the end of the day, and glad to learn that Sherlock cultivates close friendships – _if he really must have friends_ – with Yarders and pathologists. What he doesn't seem to be is too aware of the closer bond between Sherlock and Molly, or the outspoken way only Molly gets to have with Sherlock nowadays. I hope the clone doesn't say something wrong. Most of all, I hope the clone doesn't go around giving Molly false romantic hopes all over again.

'So, Sherlock, finally just the two of us', I start, tensely, as I put away my home medics bag. My friend is quietly sat at the living room's table, an angular lamp flooding his pale skin on his face, neck and sinuous hands with almost a moonlight sort of glow. He looks young, innocent, unprepared, as he sustains my gaze naturally, waiting for me to go on. He doesn't get it, he never does. The genius looks intrigued now, and pulls himself straighter in his chair like a hunting dog on a scent. The bulk of the burrowed light now reflecting on his long fingers, fiddling absent-mindedly with a microscope slide stained with red at the centre. His face becoming partly covered in shadows, where his eyes narrow calculatingly. It's absolutely expressionless that he notices:

'Have something to say to me, John? Something that couldn't be overheard by my clone?'

'As a matter of fact, yes.'

'Fire away', he dares, smugly. This is his turf, strategy, and he enjoys a good verbal sparrow as the next genius.

'Before further talk, I will need proof of identity', I demand, sternly.

'Nonsense', he waves me off with those long fingers bathed in white lamp light. 'Much to my chagrin, you trust your own instinct more than any reason I can provide.'

'Not on this instance, I don't.'

His eyes narrow fractionally, he wasn't expecting to hear that. The proof that I can still doubt the evidence my eyes produce when it comes to Sherlock.

He looks away, conceding, and pulls up the jacket sleeve exposing the pale skin where the white light hits the minute ridges of life's random little scars. I can read it with the ease of plenty of crime scene education. Razor wire, needle prick, Bunsen burner's flame, handcuffs, tarmac friction burn; last years' life story etched to his skin right there.

'Like what you see?' he teases me back, pulling down the sleeve. _Yeah, Sherlock, no wonder the Yarders talk behind our backs..._

'Sorry, I...' shaking my head I step closer, momentarily dazed by my friend's clear blue eyes today.

His eyes seem to have this ability to change colour with his emotions sometimes, and today they are of crystalline sky blue that reminds me of the pavement outside St Bart's. A frightening blue, all seeing and detached all at once.

'John?' he calls my name, snapping me back.

'Sorry.'

'You said that already', he smirks to take the edge off. I nod, making a decision at last. Here I am, standing by his desk, like a pupil before a headmaster.

'You know something I don't, Sherlock.'

His eyes crinkle fractionally in amusement. 'True. Every day.' _Git._

'About the clone and the threat against your life.'

He lowers his chin slightly, sobered up.

'John.' just that, no question answered, just a request for a connection.

'I made some deductions of my own.'

His smile is spasmodic but genuine. 'Carry on then, doctor Watson.'

'Your clone looks just like you. A good copy, and an expensive one, it was created so that you two could swap places, making him the targeted victim and keeping you alive.'

Sherlock shrugs. 'What's a clone to do but get killed? Life can be so tedious for a clone.'

I ignore his sarcasm. 'But I could never let my guard down. I've been trying to keep a watchful eye out, protect you in every way I can. The way I see it it's still my job, and not some temporary bunch of walking-talking cloned cells' mission.'

'The clone was brought in to protect me, captain Watson. Naturally, you are dismissed.'

'You never expected me to be the one protecting you this time', I point out soberly. Perhaps secretly hurt.

He presses his lips thin. 'No, John.'

I unite my hands behind my back, straightening up further. 'That's when I knew, Sherlock, of your plan. It was never a matter of trust. You weren't facing an enemy that would come up to you, one that we could fight off. Finally I understood.'

'John?' he can't quite make sense of my uncoordinated speech.

'It would never be Coronel Mustard in the library with a candlestick or Professor Plum in the conservatory with a lead pipe', I cite the board game as an illustrated example. 'No, it was something that not even your brother could fully protect you from. A trained marksman, from afar, am I right?' I ask Sherlock, and he almost flinches. _Bang on._ 'You trust my proficiency with a gun, sure, but I could not even have enough time to react. What were you to do? Full body armour suit in Kevlar?'

'It makes me perspire', he minimises with a wave of the hand, blasé.

'Hence the clone. A mix of an alternative target, a sitting duck and a plot twist to create confusion to the marksman.'

He nods. _Yes._

I pull the closest chair and take a tired seat by my best friend's side. At once I want to ask him to leave – fly over to a desert island, to some cold war bunker, to the depths of the Earth if need be to find safety from what I cannot protect him from; but I know it'd never end. We must face this enemy and put him behind us. _Working together. The three of us._

'You are wrong, John.'

Sherlock's quiet, reasonable voice is so low that it only travels the small distance between us.

'How come?'

'I'll always trust you to save my life. You should rely on that. I'm a genius, I've been told, so I should know best, right?'

I shake my head as he smiles cheekily.

'Sherlock...' I start.

'John, whatever your worries, know this: they end today', he tells me solemnly.

 _Yes, Sherlock, that's what I'm worried about. You better have a bullet-proof plan, my friend, and I'll follow you into hell if need be._

 **.**

 _ **TBC**_


	33. Chapter 33

_A/N: Almost finished! (Yes, I really mean it.) -csf_

 _Context: What if Mycroft's white lab coat people created a temporary clone of Sherlock? Featuring a time-frozen younger Sherlock who is getting to know John, a short-tempered John, and an original Sherlock who possibly has not changed all that much._

* * *

 _ **. 9**_

'Sherlock, tell me you've got a plan.'

'I've got a plan, John.'

I take in a deeper breath. It's finally time to leave the homely security of Baker Street and face the vicious criminal who is after my best friend. Let's put an end to this. Just me and my best friend – and his sci-fi clone.

'I'll be glad when this is over', I comment.

'Yeah, my clone has degenerated into a lazy creature, it's time to get rid of him.'

I blink. 'What are you talking about? He's been solving cases for you all the time he's been here!'

'He's been using up all the milk for his scientific research.'

'Thought you'd approve of that', I bait him.

'I've already completed successfully all his researches. He's years behind me!'

'How annoying', I comment sarcastically, as we reach the back of the living room's door, where our coats are hanging.

'And finally I will take my coat back', Sherlock says with a triumphant smirk. Noticing my surprise he complains at once: 'Don't look so surprised, John, you know I'm an eminently selfish being. I want my coat back. _It's mine._ Why should I allow him to wear it?'

'I don't know, gratitude?' I answer sharply.

Sherlock gulps. 'I'm already sharing all the important things...' he mutters, to himself mostly.

'Oh yeah? Like what? Your scarf?'

'Like you', he mutters even more under his breath.

I have this instant suspicion that I'm being played here.

'Don't give me that, Sherlock!' I shout at last, all the heavy clouds brewing in the last couple of days conjoined and hatched into a deep, thundering storm of my own.

Sherlock looks around pointedly and shushes me, amused; infuriating me further. 'The clone will hear you, John! He'll think we are arguing.'

'We _are_ arguing!'

'I'm not.'

I clench my fists. 'Maybe he should hear!' _His clone is not a sacrificial object to dispose of._ If anything, he's proven to us in this short time that he's got a mind of his own. He's got a mission, and it needs to be his decision whether to take it, or leave Sherlock and I to deal with our mess alone as usual. He may want to go out to a nice beach till sunset and enjoy the good life. He might want to find true love before he disappears back into the unknown. He may want to eat five tons of chocolate without minding if it's downright unhealthy!

'John, I warned you not to get attached to my clone...' Sherlock tells me in a dull tone of voice, as if repeating himself was an effort.

'I'm not saying he's not to fulfil his mission', I state, setting my shoulders. This is about honour and choice. It needs to be the clone's own decision. And from what I saw of the cloned Sherlock he may have different plans to those laid out by Mycroft Holmes and his team of white lab coats. 'Sherlock, I'm saying we need to respect his decision.'

'His decision will be of self-preservation. I'm him, ergo he'll protect me! It's part of his genetic code. It's utterly rational and logical, John!'

I become sarcastic. 'You never do anything remotely irrational, of course.'

He squints. 'Do you think he'll rebel against me? Desert me when the time comes?'

'No', I answer truthfully, 'I think he'll stick to whatever decision he's already made. After all _he is you_.'

Sherlock angrily grabs his long coat from the hanger and shoves it against me, for me to give to the other Sherlock.

 _ **.**_

We pace mindlessly outside an abandoned theatre, an historical relic of bygone times, to keep us warm in the muggy afternoon. The cold is emanating from the Thames, reminding us of the London we know and love best.

'So, you are sure there is a plan, John. That the genius detective is not doing this just to mess with us?' DI Greg Lestrade asks me warily at the edge of the old building, where we all meet. Greg will provide the police backup while Sherlock and I take the lead into the building.

'With Sherlock there is always a plan', I say, full of conviction, 'whether it's a plan we would approve of is another matter.' I shrug. We need to trust Sherlock, the way I see it. Despite Greg's reasonable reticence, _we nearly always do_.

'This time he's being selfish', I say, baiting on the detective inspector.

It doesn't quite go to plan. 'What do you mean "this time"?'

I clench my fists and turn on our doubting friend at once. 'How many times has Sherlock solved a murder for you?'

'Countless times', Greg admits, eyeing me carefully now.

'How many times has he actually caught you the killer?'

'Lots, I guess.'

'And saved the intended victims' lives?'

'Sure, John.'

'You never complained then.'

'Look, John, I...'

'This killer is after him, and he needs to be stopped as well. Will you help us save Sherlock's life?'

The grey haired detective inspector gulps down. 'Yeah, of course I will', he tells me. 'So long as you are sure he knows what he's doing, I don't mind the fifteen page long paperwork at the end of this.'

I nod, more reasonable. 'I'll buy you a coffee when we get out of here.' It's my peace offering.

'Make it two', he requests, tiredly. Then, by association he looks at me closely. 'Have they been making you go mental? The genial twins over there?'

I look Greg over. He thinks he's being funny now.

'It's actually not that bad', I report, amused.

Greg's countenance turns heavier. 'Don't think Sally is as easy going as you, John', he comments. I look over my shoulder to the incoming sergeant, fuming and righteous. Greg takes the patient lead at once. 'What's up, Sally?'

'There's two of them now, sir! The freak has brought in some cosplaying fan along to admire his work!'

'Crickey, you might as well be still seeing Anderson too, Sally!'

Greg's keen on keeping our Sherlock duo a secret. In a mocking tone he confronts his junior officer who has just cone rushing to snitch to her boss that she's seen two consulting detectives, quietly conferencing with each other at the edge of the property. It takes all my self-control not to groan and rub my face. _I told those two to stand well apart – but would they listen? No._

'Anderson?' She almost falls for the distraction.

'You didn't spend the night with him sleeping rough in the alley behind the pub again, did you?' Greg squints as he suspects, deflecting her attention.

'Anderson had locked both our keys inside his car', he recalls with a tired sigh. 'And my purse with my phone and wallet. I could have got a ride home, but I didn't want to leave him alone in the street. Bad things might happen to him. You know he's not very good at self-defence.'

'Fine, I get it... What was that about Sherlock again?'

'I saw two of them, sir. I really did! Sherlock is playing a trick on us all. Again! He's got minions now to come to the crime scenes, dressed as him, and search for more clues. I bet he doesn't want us to know he needs help to solve our cases!'

'He solves our cases regardless, sergeant. That's why we've got the highest percentage of solved cases of the whole Yard!'

'He keeps bringing outsiders to our crime scenes. If the defense attorney gets wind of it, it might overthrow the cases we build.' She pointedly throws a sideways look at me, their silent witness.

'There won't be a defense attorney without Sherlock because there won't be a case!'

'A murderer can walk free!'

'Only if you're sure you've seen two Sherlocks. You could be seeing double. Maybe you are fatigued and need some time off approved asap...'

She deflates fast. 'Yeah, I guess I could be', she takes on the small bribe, not without sending me a nasty, cautionary look. It was an uphill battle anyway. Sally knows when to grab a higher prize, and anyway Sherlock's usual behaviour offers multiple opportunities to get ahead for someone with Sally's unbridled ambition.

Poor Greg can see how much Sherlock helps Sally along unwittingly, as the DI tries so hard to keep peace and harmony among the troops.

 _ **.**_

Our furtive footsteps crunch slightly under our weight, as we step on the old carpeted corridors. Behind us we leave a minor trace of destruction as our steps crush the frail fibers of decades old unused path. Wherever Sherlock supposes he'll find the enemy, he didn't come this way, surely. But I wouldn't be surprised. This is Sherlock's game, where he's luring the criminal who has given Mycroft credible reason to be fearful for his baby brother's safety. Sherlock must stop him before he himself gets caught by a sneaky marksman with no morals and a desire to profit from the eradication of the world's only consulting detective.

Three of us walk this corridor, under Sherlock Holmes' – the original, I mean – directions. Whatever his plan may be, Sherlock is keeping customarily secretive about it.

'Now what do we do?' the clone asks in a rough whisper, as he holds up a camping light so we can see our way through the shadows.

'Now we save the day', Sherlock answers quite simply.

I roll my eyes, starting to feel the strain of age on this tired soldier. _Protecting sulky geniuses is now my full time occupation. Who would have thought?_ A doctor, a soldier, a blogger and a geniuses babysitter.

'And how, I fear I need to ask, do we do that?' the clone insists.

'Strategy. I move backstage. You go to the stage and look for clues, Duplicate.'

'Clues of what exactly?'

The original genius shrugs. 'Unimportant. The sniper will soon find a comfortable location to fire at you. I will be there to stop him.'

'That plan is too simplistic.'

'You only think that because you have a high IQ too.'

'Even John thinks it's simple.'

I elbow him, for what it's worth. _But yes, it's rather simple, Sherlock._

'Why complicate?' Sherlock sustains with a shoulder shrug. 'We're just here to catch a prolific killer.'

The clone looks at me for my input. I nod sharply, assuring him Sherlock is the commanding officer on this one. So we separate, tensely.

 _ **.**_

Two friends roam deserted corridors that have seen no-one for decades. We walk side by side, in unity against the danger that befalls on one of us.

'Why this place, Sherlock?'

'You should know, John, that I like a little touch of the dramatic.'

I smirk. 'There is no case here. That's what you had to tell Lestrade. You are setting up a stage, so to speak, to catch the killer after you.'

He nods quietly. 'Of course I am, John.'

I stop short on the dark corridor we are crossing. 'You are not Sherlock', I realise with a shock.

'In a fashion I am', the Sherlock lookalike replies calmly, stopping as he waits for me. Then, intrigued: 'How did you know?'

'I keep telling you, Sherlock is my best friend.'

'Hm.'

'Where is he?' I ask with mounting anxiety. 'Has he gone after the killer on his own? Has he taken your place on the stage? Why has he left me with you? You are to be the target, I shouldn't be here!'

'Hey!' the clone protests.

'I should be out there with Sherlock, preventing your hit.'

'Oh.' _What?_ Did he actually think I meant I wanted to be away from him to avoid getting shot?

'I need to stop it.' I impress all my assuredness onto my words.

The clone comes closer to me. In a rare moment of confidence, he hastens to get the much needed words out. 'John, I may not get a chance to save Sherlock's life, but if I keep you both safe I may have saved his heart. It might not be what he wanted, but it seems to me to be what he needed. And, just between the two of us, the git doesn't know what he needs, let alone what he wants.'

I smile softly. My best friend's heart is his main gift, as always. This is the clone committing to his assigned mission with honour and pride. 'How can I thank you?' I ask him, my voice faltering me at the most important time.

'Take care of us.' I nod, _that's an old silent promise._

Together, we set course back down the empty corridors, eager and cautious.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	34. Chapter 34

_A/N: Last one for this piece! Thanks for being there. -csf_

 _Context: What if Mycroft's white lab coat people created a temporary clone of Sherlock? Featuring a time-frozen younger Sherlock who is getting to know John, a short-tempered John, and an original Sherlock who possibly has not changed all that much._

* * *

 _ **. 10**_

The clone has moved further into the first audience seats, hoping to catch the sniper red-handed. It feels off to me. Maybe it's my army training, could be merely paranoia, but I don't think that's where we'll find a careful, methodic marksman. Quietly, furtively, I advance alone to the centre upper balcony. I may be wrong, but the heavy price of being possibly right outweighs the doubts.

I run swiftly, my feet hardly making a noise over the ruined carpet as I rush up the stairs, heart pounding on my ribcage. I've got my faithful gun in my hand and a desire to put wrongs right.

As I reach the upper floor's balcony I see him. Just a dark shadow crouching in the middle of the rows of perfectly aligned seats. In front of him the indistinct lights from the theatre stage shine on a tripod and a long shiny metal riffle barrel. He's carefully aiming his riffle at the unsuspected target bellow. _Sherlock._

 _I must stop this criminal._

Advancing confidently, gun in hand, I only announce myself as I sense the end of his aiming ritual, his decision to shoot. It's as if the stale air in that stuffy theatre had suddenly become energised by a dark atmosphere.

'Hold it right there!' I warn him in a clear, sharp voice.

He turns at once. I vaguely recognise him from one of our old cases. Revenge them, put him on Sherlock's track.

'Drop it!' I warn him.

His eyes, shinning cold and empty in the dusk, narrow fractionally. I duck just in time to evade a knife he throws my way, quite proficiently. As I'm getting up he's ran my way and tackles me to the ground. I fight him off at once, but make sure to give in just slightly, just so I can get to his abandoned riffle...

He punches me so strongly that the hand in which I hold my gun collides against the nearest seat and the gun slides away and gets utterly lost somewhere under the rows of seats.

I kick him away from me with energy and grab the riffle in an instant. Quickly double-checking the bullets left in the riffle, I reassemble it in fluid movements, lock it and throw it over the balcony railing. It clanks with a dull thud when it hits the ground bellow. The wild criminal looks at me as if he's just won himself an advantage. 'I wouldn't do that if I were you', I say, assuredly. As easily as I could tell him the scores of others that didn't listen and how fed-up I am of not being listened to (especially after flat sharing with two Sherlocks).

He launches at me, viciously. Brimming with dark energy, he's overpowering me now. He gets hold of my frail shoulder and punches it purposefully. I fight the bile that comes up to my mouth, as I grab onto the sore muscle tissue, too damaged to begin with.

The vicious criminal isn't satisfied yet. He holds me tight as I immediately struggle to free myself. _His attention is upon me now, he now knows John Watson is Sherlock Holmes' last line of defence._ This time he's prepared to eliminate this insistent threat to his plans. I must make sure to prevail on my mission. _He can't get a chance to hurt Sherlock._

Behind me the criminal moves to a choke-hold I can't break. I exhaust all the tricks up my sleeve – even desperate ones like stomping on his toes: steel boots; and kicking him in the groin: can't quite twist in his grasp in such a confined space; and clawing at his nimble fingers; he's wearing leather gloves – but the enemy is too big, too strong and I'm falling weaker by the second, vulnerable, at his mercy.

Struggling uncoordinatedly like a madman now – my airways cut off entirely – I'm losing grip with reality, my fingers as they claw on his hands are getting numb, there's a loud ringing in my ears as I fight that last defeated thought that this time I'm on the losing side of the battle...

 _Sherlock._ It's for Sherlock that I need to keep awake.

Suddenly a loud thumping noise behind me reverberates, magnified acoustically by the design of the small theatre, and the criminal falls, unaided, towards me. His whole weight suddenly crashing over me, we stumble and fall towards between wooden seats and to the harsh floor. He rolls off me, as I immediately shrug him off. As I'm uncoordinatedly rising from the ground, in a desperate escape attempt he springs back to life, yanks me back and slams me back on the floor violently. He's again wrapping his hands around my neck when a loud gunshot rings across the small warehouse. We both fall to the floor as dead weight now.

My head is spinning, my throat is almost too bruised to allow for air flow and breathing, but all I can do is lay down and feel blessed through my coughing fit.

My eyes slowly wander towards my saviour. I can see the blurry outline of Sherlock Holmes in his long towering coat, rushing towards me. _The coat._ Even before I search for the signs I know are there I can tell that _this Sherlock is the clone_.

 _No matter in what incarnation, Sherlock always comes to my rescue._

And it puzzles me. Not the heroic action, of course not that, I'd wage that heroism is part of Sherlock's fabric of life, even if as a doctor I can't prove that. It puzzles me that Sherlock's clone, who up till a couple of days ago didn't exist and therefore didn't know a thing about me, as now so decisively come to my rescue. Despite all his feigned indifference, Sherlock's heart lives in this clone too.

I blink tiredly as I face the man who has just saved my life. My throat feels tight, in pain, and about to collapse. I can't quite fit into words all I need to say to him.

But where's Sherlock, the real Sherlock? Shouldn't the clone be protecting him instead? Why did he forsake his mission?

I'm about to force the necessary words out of my scratched throat when the clone reads my intentions and hastily shakes his head. He kneels on the floor beside me, abandoning the blood smeared pistol that he used to butt the criminal's head, and gently circles me in a precautionary help as I try to sit up, ready to catch me if I lose balance.

It's a small pistol, tainted red and wet, on the old carpeted floor. In fact, thinking about it, it wasn't a small pistol I heard being fired, but something bigger, more powerful.

 _They acted together_ , Sherlock "I work alone" Holmes and his clone, to save me. My best friend found the riffle down bellow the balcony and used it against its owner.

'Thanks, Sherlock...' I rasp out at last.

'I'm not Sherlock', he tells me, plain as day.

'I know, but you two are one and only to me', I justify myself, lamely. Somehow he takes it as a compliment. Much like his cells donor this cloned Sherlock craves acceptance. Just like Sherlock, he shouldn't have to ask for it.

I'm falling victim of a painful coughing fit when the clone's long fingers come into contact with my jacket, grasping the fabric tightly, as if clawing at it. Immediately I look onto those aquamarine eyes and follow the direction in which they stare in static panic. The criminal has woken up and, despite being severely wounded already, has gabbed hold of the clone's abandoned gun – this is a rookie mistake the older Sherlock wouldn't do – and he's revengefully pointing it at me, finger steadily pressing the trigger...

I can't move. My reflexes are numbed by the shortness of breath from the struggle, my arms feel as heavy as lead, my heart pounds in my ribcage in a desperate attempt to grab onto life. But I know it's inevitable that–

The clone's strong hands are decided and sharp as they fix me to the spot. He interposes himself between me and that bullet in a mad, generous decision to protect me with his own life. The gun fires loudly before I can react, those aquamarine eyes that stare me down in firm decision widen in shock, then he's convulsing towards me. Before I know how, I'm the one grabbing him, holding him up, and I hug him tight and desperate. I can feel the hot blood soaking through his marred coat at his back. Another bullet detonates and I can hear its instantaneous sizzling sound as the projectile crosses the room before it impacts on a soft target, beneath the thundering gunpowder deflagration in the firing chamber, and I know this is someone else shooting, that the real Sherlock has come to my rescue as well; but I fear he's too late now, as his clone lies gasping for breath in my steadying embrace.

I look over my shoulder. The criminal has fallen back to the ground, lifeless. Threat neutralised, the real Sherlock reaches towards the pale, trembling soldier raised from the floor. I look down on the prone form in my arms.

'John. Are you okay? ...John!' he practically yells my name, trying desperately to penetrate the deep fog of confusion swirling in my mind, suffocating me.

 _Everything is blurred, I can't breath, I'm desperate to keep holding onto Sherlock's lifeless body and the people on the sidewalk keep holding me back. Why are they doing that to me? I'm a doctor, let me do my job, I need to save Sherlock's life, the most important life is at stake and I can't reach him. He lies on a cold pavement, alone, so alone, I can't leave him there._

'John, you need to let go, do you hear me?'

 _Sherlock jumped because he believed he was all alone and had no way out. He may have been alone on his last moments, but he must lay alone now, exposed as a freak on a cold sidewalk, I will not let go._

'John, it's me, I'm here! He's just the clone, remember?'

 _I'll always believe in Sherlock Holmes, no matter the hurtful words that admitted tricking me. I know Sherlock, I know he's brilliant, and I don't know what made him doubt himself this way, but this is not the way out – I couldn't save him from his demons_.

'John!'

The desperate undertones that weave through my name finally reach me in my torpor and I look up from the bundled and damp wool coat. My gaze is crossed with that of intense aquamarine eyes, that are trying to read my mind, my quivering stance. Bravely facing my confusion, Sherlock keeps his strong gaze focused on me, allowing me time to grasp reality again, to study his skin tone, his breathing, his _aliveness_. He gives me a chance to collect myself and I realise I'm hanging on to his clone, the one that came with a due date, a materialised imprint of reality; not the real, breathing, living, scrutinising and deducing Sherlock Holmes.

I let go off the pain that is blinding me right now with a short gasp.

'That's it, John. Focus on me and let it go. Just drop it, John. It's over now.'

I blink and just like that the world jumps forward and accelerates. 'I can save him, Sherlock. I need to save him.'

My rational friend frowns on me, growing suspicious again. 'No, John. I'm here.'

'I need to make it up to you', I tell him mysteriously, my gaze trying to bore deep in his soul.

'John, it's alright, I was never really hurt, it was a trick, I had to make you believe it.'

 _Shit, he knows what chaos is going on inside my head._

He clasps his warm hands over mine, that seem to have started exposing and analysing the wound on the patient, but I never stopped looking at the real Sherlock in front of me. _I can't stop looking at my friend. If I do I might lose him, I just know I will._

Sherlock grabs on tighter to my hands, urgently. 'John, _no_.'

I shake my head, desperate, a deep trembling coming over me, taking over. _How can he ask me to let go? To give up on him?_

'Keep your eyes on me', he demands, stern but soft nonetheless. _I never strayed my gaze._

Then it occurs to me at last. _Transferred pain._ Sherlock is about to experience the full force of a deadly bullet despite our best efforts to keep him protected. He fakes a smile to reassure me it will all be alright. It won't. Can Sherlock succumb to a transferred pain?

My friend is about to die in front of my eyes for a third time in this theatre. It's too much to bear.

Luckily – as if luck has breathed my way for once in my wretched life – the clone's body starts becoming lighter. He starts fading before our eyes, turning invisible, ceasing to be there, becoming immaterial. He's disintegrating as he reaches his expiration date, literally. Perhaps earlier than we had assumed.

I feel Sherlock's strong grip over my hands, intertwining his fingers further in mine, seeking that connection, live and wholly. He wants me to feel he's alive, as we watch his clone disappear.

As soon as the last fleck of light from the clone flickers out of sight – and the damaged coat falls on the floor, deflated and empty – Sherlock looks back at me. He won't let go of my hands. He wants me to be assured of his silent support.

 _ **.**_

221B's living room looks the same as always, as if it could hold no memory of another Sherlock having gone past it in the last few days.

'So, why did you accept Mycroft's gift of a clone, Sherlock?' I ask my friend over a nice cup of tea. _I've made three cups for the last time. I left one untouched as a goodbye to a cloned Sherlock that was as great as the original. He was my friend too._

Sherlock raises his feline eyes my way and ponders quietly:

'I was studying human interaction, John.'

 _Yeah, right!_ 'Learnt anything new?' He shakes his head. 'About me', I particularize. He actually blushes.

'I enjoyed watching how the two of you bonded.'

'You were trying to understand', I patiently translate, 'how you and I became such good friends when it would have seemed so improbable.'

'Yes.'

'Any conclusions?'

The detective hesitates.

'I think it's down to you being who you are', he finally says.

'Likewise.' I lower my gaze to my cup. 'So, does Mycroft know you used a very expensive clone to test friendship?'

'You are not my only friend, John, according to your own prior statements.'

'Oh, come on! You tested Greg, Molly and even Mrs Hudson!'

'As you said', he looks away, 'the clone was priceless. I had to make the most of him.'

I smile. 'I think you did... How does it feel now, without your borrowed identical twin?'

Sherlock ponders the question thoughtfully. 'Okay, I guess. He could be very annoying.' I giggle straight away.

'No more clones any time soon, please', I ask as the laughter dies away.

The detective hums. 'There will be no more Sherlock Holmes clones, I promise.'

I blink, utterly uncomfortable. _And blink again._

'Sherlock, I want my cells back.'

'What was that?' He acts aloof, as I'm tensing up.

'Sherlock, I want my cells back! No John clones! I'm not even important, why would you even want my clone? Oh, this is about the bloody breakfast, and the blog updating, and the bloody groceries shopping, isn't it? You are so lazy! You'd have a bunch of Johns around just so you could do nothing around 221B!'

'I already do nothing, John.'

'Oi! Watch it!' I shout at him; but he's useless, he's almost rolling off his chair, laughing.

I find myself chuckling along. _Good old Sherlock... He's one of a kind; so to speak._

 _ **.**_


	35. Chapter 35

_A/N: An acquaintance of mine wanted to borrow a prism. Like me, there are words in the English language she struggles to enunciate correctly. It reminded me of the word "prison". (I can imagine all the proper English people shaking their heads, but I'm not making this up.) Optical effects, prisons, Sherlock and John; what else but a new story could I make of it all?_

 _This is the first of a few chapters to go; don't yet know how many, haven't written them yet. Don't intend for this to be as long as the last one. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_ _ **1st**_

 _The first thing I'm aware of is a strange metallic aftertaste in my mouth. I can feel it on my tongue, no matter how much I swallow it down it keeps coming back up like bile._

 _The second thing is automobile traffic around me. Cars screeching to a halt, honking at me, insults being hurled at someone in my vicinity. Takes me a while to realise they are aimed at me. I stand on the middle of the road, not knowing how I got here. Or what I'm doing here._

 _Finally I notice the police emergency services arriving nearby._

 _It's not until I look down on my shirt, soaked in someone's blood that I comprehend something is utterly wrong. And even then I don't know what. I have no more recollection of the past few hours than a torpor filled blur._

 _Why can't I recall what just happened?_

 _ **.**_

'John, what have you got yourself into?' Sherlock asks me sternly, eyes boring into mine, more collected than mine could ever be at this stage.

'I don't know', I tell him.

He tries for a reaction, dramatically. 'Must I always come to your rescue?'

 _Sounds logical_ , 'yes'.

He looks like he lost his footing for an instant or two. Then he yells over his shoulder: 'Need a forensic in here for a blood sample! John's been drugged!'

I open my eyes wide. _Oh, poor sod! Who's John again?_

Lestrade comes rushing at once. 'I was just speaking to John. He sounded a bit off, but–'

'I'm sure of it', the detective cuts to the chase, giving the inspector no room for doubt. The older one takes a better look at the seriousness in the younger one's expression and cooperates at once.

'I'll get Anderson in here.'

'I will need a second sample to take. I will be testing it independently. There is a range of poisons that will not show up in your regular analysis, Lestrade.'

'You think this is a setup, Sherlock', Greg realises, frowning worriedly. 'But who would want to frame John Watson?'

They both stare blankly at me. I just return the effort, too fogged up to think clearly.

 _ **.**_

'Oh, next time give it to me! Where did you learn to extract a blood sample? Dead people?' I ask, squinting at the man sitting next to me. Sherlock actually nods.

'They never complained', he muttered under his breath, labeling the small plastic vial with my blood.

'Even Anderson did a marginally better job...' I decry, rubbing the crook of my sore arm.

Sherlock looks fleetingly hurt. It's there for a moment, gone the next. He calmly takes up a notebook from my jacket's pocket and rolls it to a blank page, starting to make notes at once.

 _He forgets I can read upside down._

'I'm not "tetchy"!'

'If you say so, John.'

'Scratch that out, Sherlock! Someone might see it!'

He hums, concomitantly.

'I'm not "paranoid" either! Are you trying to describe my mental state, or insult me?'

He looks up, surprised by something I said. 'I'm summarizing the after-effects of the drug you have been administered with.'

'Oh. Can't you at least write something nice, please?' I ask, sighing.

He nods and scribbles an extra word, then flips the notepad for me to read from it.

'It says "polite".'

'Yes.'

'Thanks, Sherlock. That's very kind of you.'

 _ **.**_

A small kip in one of the holding cells at the Yard helps me gather my thoughts again. As I wake up to a sore shoulder and a cold cell, it dawns on me just how bad is my predicament.

I have no recollection of what I did earlier in the day, no idea how my clothes got stained with a good amount of someone's blood or what happened to that injured person.

There's no defense possible for events unknown, no likely alibi for the time elapsed.

The inference from the facts is as obvious as immediate. Someone has died in my hands.

Sherlock is alright, and so is Greg. My friends are sure to have checked on everyone they can think of that I know, and found them well, I'm as sure of that as of a long list of phone calls starting with "have you seen John at all today?" and ending in empty leads.

If something had come up they would have returned to me; to exonerate me or to charge me.

I lower my head, as I rub my shoulder harder. Its radiating pain grounding me in a moment when I could doubt the very reality around me. These cold, murky cell walls have held down so many criminals before me. Frustrated, aggravated that I let whatever events pass me by numbly, leaving no memory. What a mess I've fallen into.

 _Only Sherlock Holmes can get me out now._

 _I'm his client._

 _My liberty, honour and fate lie in his capable hands._

 _ **.**_

I'm reunited with Sherlock and Greg by a long faced officer that seems to have decided to perform all his duties with a sobering lack of interest. It's little comfort that I don't have yet to suffer the unabashed curiosity of the Yarders I've come to meet while crime scene analysing with Sherlock.

'John Watson', he identifies at the door.

Greg dismisses him at once. 'You can go, Chandler. We'll take it from here.'

'But sir...' the officer's interest flickers alit for a moment. I cringe in expectation.

'John's a witness for now. That will be all, Chandler.

'Yes, sir', he replies, again as if he couldn't care less.

I look over my shoulder as the sunken faced man leaves Greg's small office.

'John, how are you doing, mate?'

I frown upon Greg's question. I'm a killer, or a witness, hopefully just a lousy doctor, we don't know. Somehow, someone lost a life and I was there. "Peachy" doesn't quite cut it this time.

Sherlock has been eyeing me silently, under the most careful scrutiny. Finally he springs back to some simile of action as he reports in full disclosure:

'We have scoured the cctv cameras in the area. So far they haven't provided enough answers. You have come out of a narrow alley with your shirt soaked in blood. Lestrade has sent a team there. It's been declared a crime scene.'

I blink. 'How come you haven't gone too, Sherlock?'

'I went, and came back already, John. It's been five hours since you were found lost, wandering the streets.'

 _Has it been that long?_

Sherlock sees the confusion so apparent in my face and with a glance at Greg – perhaps carrying some reproach – he comes to nudge me to take a seat, closer to them.

'The drugs have mostly cleared out of your system by now, John. You mustn't feel frightened. I don't believe there will be lasting damage.' Then, with a cheeky smile he adds: 'I should know. I poisoned you times enough.'

I fake a smile, it comes across as tentative. 'What have they got into me?'

'That is yet to be determined. The first analysis were regretfully inconclusive. Plenty of consciousness altering substances are almost untraceable after the first half an hour since absorption.'

'You don't know', I translate, feeling all too vulnerable.

'Not yet', he corrects, confidence on display for me to soak in.

'And the victim?' The two men stare at me, hesitating on their answers. 'Come on!' I urge them. 'It's my day! I've got a right to know what happened!'

Lestrade takes a deep breath and reports: 'There was a body in the alley, John. Deep lacerations with a knife disposed off, nearby. Wounds consistent with a left-handed person like you, and old enough to put time of death just between the time you went in and got out.'

'Why can't I remember a thing?' I groan, desperation growing on me, squeezing me like a vice.

'There was no 999 call, or any other type of emergency call, even though you had your phone with you.'

'Maybe I was busy trying to save the victim as a doctor!'

'Possibly. We are trying to determine if you knew the victim.'

'Just ask me, I'm here!' I protest for the lack of initiative.

He gulps. 'I have to follow some regulations here, John.'

Sherlock cuts in, pragmatic: 'I don't, on the other hand, respond to any higher authority. The victim was a young male, mid twenties, short, well-built, dark hair, brown eyes, plausible South American family background, clean-shaven, birthmark on his neck, faded scar on his right bicep, accustomed to physical work and long hours on the exterior, worn but clean clothes indicating a fall from fortune but maintaining social standards, possibly looking for work as is further shown by the worn soles of his shoes and the over perspired heels of his new pair of socks, just recently bought and not washed prior to usage.'

I take a couple of seconds to process all that. 'Amazing!' I say, despite myself.

'Not enough', he says through gritted teeth. 'Doesn't prove your innocence yet.'

'You can do it, Sherlock', I tell my best friend, full of faith. _I'm his client, in a case that will never be just like any other to Sherlock._

 _My freedom's at stake._

'I'll know more once you see the body, John. Perhaps you can identify him for us.'

Greg protests at once. 'What, _no!_ Sherlock, he can't leave the Yard! He's a material witness at best!'

'Just let him go, will ya?' Sherlock even scrounges his face at the detective inspector in charge.

Greg stares dumbly at Sherlock. 'What do you mean, let him go? This is a prison matter, John's under arrest, charges will be made – serious charges, they say he murdered someone. For crying out loud, Sherlock, I can't just open the doors and let a murderer go free!'

I flinch at his characterisation. _I know he didn't mean it._ Greg Lestrade is one of the very few loyal friends who maintain their certainty of my innocence. But hearing the charges against me laid out so coldly by the same voice that justifiably accused others we help put away, _scars me deeply_.

Sherlock insists, in a useless autistic effort: 'We both know he wouldn't do it, even if technically he was capable of it. This is John H Watson we are talking about.'

'I know that, Sherlock, but the law doesn't. It won't work that way. John needs to go through the procedures.' There's no glory in abiding the procedures for the detective inspector, I can sense. He looks tired and frustrated – and it warms my heart to see that he cares, he'll fight for me.

 _Right now my situation is so desperate that I need all the help I can get from my friends. My life in their hands._

'The law is useless if it puts away an innocent man, Lestrade!'

'This law is still the only one we have.'

I'm mutedly gaping at my two friends who so eloquently discuss my future. I've been framed of a murder I didn't commit, _I wouldn't have_.

'So your plan is just to leave John to take the blame?' Sherlock deduces indignantly.

Greg nods despite himself. 'Might be the safest option for him at the moment, too.'

Sherlock's expression betrays deep distress. 'Placing John among the criminals we put away? _Very safe_ , is it?'

We both look seriously at our genius friend, not fooled for a second that he will not break the rules and do things his way. Which in this particular case means breaking the law. Even Greg sees it, but his hands are tied.

I give in, as Greg Lestrade handcuffs me, staring ahead numbly in disbelief. It will take Sherlock Holmes to save me now. I'm as much of a desperate client as he ever had in his career.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	36. Chapter 36

_A/N: How about a plot twist? -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_ _ **2nd**_

The cold evening air greets me as I cross the New Scotland Yard's threshold onto the parking lot outside. My hands are cuffed, I've been provided a standard sweatshirt to replace my soiled shirt (taken as evidence), and I've smartened up only to recognise my current situation is dire.

Still I cannot remember what happened. Why I came out of Baker Street, or how come I went into a little alley and came out looking like Jack the ripper.

Sherlock is convinced I was set up – my best friend refuses to lose his unwavering faith in me.

As I'm escorted to a police van, in which I'll be transported to a holding cell in jail, I must quietly ponder the chance that I did something wrong while I wasn't in my right mind. Would I have had an extreme psychosis incident, perhaps fuelled by post traumatic stress disorder? I thought I was as beyond that diagnosis as a former soldier who has been exposed to the worse inputs of war can ever be. There was no escalation of behaviours, no prior sign that I could snap that way. I find it illogical, implausible. Sherlock finds the suggestion of it moronic. I need to believe that someone who knows me so well would know how to spot the signs if I had been spinning out of reality.

Of course Sherlock has an answer as to how come I can't remember. _Sherlock always has answers for everything._ The more the puzzle rubs him off the more answers he finds.

The great detective thinks I've been drugged. He says it is fairly easy to drug me without my knowledge. I never know for sure when he's messing with me...

Sherlock seems personally affronted that someone other than him – hypothetical as it may be – would have drugged me. I'm not happy about it either. I was found in a dreamlike state, wandering about London. A lot could have happened to me in the few hours I hold as unaccounted for.

Besides the blood samples at the Yard, I was also summarily examined by the doctor on call. They found no nips, cuts, bruises, or any other signs of fight, defense, or complicity, nor did I present injuries that could account for the sheer amount of anonymous blood on me.

But then there's the body they found on the alley as a probable source.

My shirt's fabric was soaked through. I heard Sherlock looked murderous as he saw my shirt being bagged and tagged as evidence. _I guess he's fonder of my shirts than he is of my jumpers._

The police van gets going with a start. I'm leaving behind the last connection to safe ground. I'm going to jail. I'll be formally charged, they believe they have already a case strong enough to ensure my prosecution.

I keep thinking of Mrs Hudson's late husband. Sherlock ensured his prosecution, he said when we met. I don't want to be like Mr Hudson. Hopefully Sherlock is as good at ensuring innocence gets proven.

 _ **.**_

The engine dies out after the police van approached the parking lot barrier. The driver seems to be getting nowhere with the authentication machine that actions the barrier to let us through. I guess I'm not the only one having a bad day, after all. Still feels like the driver has the upper hand on misfortunes, though.

Suddenly the van's sliding door by my side is pulled open and a very honest face looks inside with a defiant smirk.

'Well, come along, John!'

 _Sherlock's come to free me, by the looks of it._

'Sherlock, we can't do this!' I shake my head, dazed.

He frowns, absolutely sincere in his confusion. He hops in with light movements as if he had climbed on a bus or something. Except Sherlock doesn't take the bus. 'What do you mean: we can't?' he repeats, attentive as a little kid waiting for an explanation.

I lower my voice to a sharp hiss. 'You are trying to break me out of jail!'

'You are not yet in jail.'

'I'm in a police van, under police custody, being transported to jail. What part of this highjack is not meant to keep me from reaching the jail?'

He rolls his eyes, petulant, as if I'm being difficult now.

'You need to go through the starting house and collect 500 pounds before you go to jail, John. Have we not played enough board games to learn that?'

'Seriously, Sherlock!'

'Seriously, John? You are not guilty, I will not have you being treated as such.'

'I'm going to be found guilty!' I almost yell back.

'Not if I have a say in that', he responds quietly, dignified.

'I believe in Justice. Don't you?'

'When it's convenient', he answers, completely missing the point.

I sigh, deflated. 'And anyway how did you even managed thus far? Was it you jamming the gate?'

He deflects his answer. 'It's quite simple, really, I'm surprised the lot of criminals we help bring to justice don't all do the same.'

'Mycroft helped you, right?' I squint at him.

'Yes', he answers, gulping down.

'He's in on this plan?'

'Well, not officially, of course, my brother is far to lazy to take a stand.'

'And now?' I ask. _Perhaps I'm giving in already._

'Now we run away and prove your innocence.'

'Just like that, Sherlock?'

'Just like that, John.' He gets up and glances at his wrist watch. 'Right on time, like I planned. Your reticence was very timely, John. Only one officer left in the van, the other went to get assistance.'

'We can't harm the driver, he's doing his job!' I demand at once.

'All has been accounted for, John. Have I ever let you down?' With sharp punches of his closed hand, Sherlock hits repeatedly the small dividing window made of plexiglass, to get the driver's attention. I cringe inwardly. This is not good. This is Sherlock Holmes turning to evil without any moral qualms.

'Cut it out!' We can hear the muffled order from the front of the van.

The driver leaves the front after Sherlock's insistence. My mad friend keeps his plan secret. What will the driver do when he recognises the extra passenger? Sherlock smiles at me and sneaks something out of his pocket. 'Make sure to breathe through your nose, John. You don't want too much of this in your system', he adds mysteriously before a cloud of thick white smoke starts spreading and swirling inside the van. It's sweet and sickly and –sluggish. _The air is sluggish._ I focus on my friend's confident expression before I'm sliding off my seat to the floor of the van.

Sherlock drugs me to pitch dark oblivion. I guess he needed to have a last one up on the whole "let's drug John" business.

 _ **.**_

'I knew you would refuse, full of old-fashioned notions of criminals, justice and fairness, John. I wasn't ready to let you go to jail to prove a moral high ground.'

I rub my forehead, clammy and cold. I've just come to, slumped on the floor of some garden outhouse, probably not very far from the Yard. Sherlock is monitoring me constantly, he mustn't be too sure about the amount of chemical smoke I inhaled in the van. 'Why drug me, though? Were you expecting non-compliance? To take me away against my will?'

He refuses to answer some of my questions. 'You weren't the intended target, just collateral damage. I needed to neutralise the van driver when he got called to check the back. All went according to plan. Of course I could have used your Browning, but again you wouldn't have approved of that. You are very demanding, John, even in your absence.'

I smirk. Sherlock is wrong. I hold no influence over him. The softened highjack plan is only proof of his good nature. However I decry his results approach to saving me from jail. I'm still holding my head. _I've been drugged too many times today._ Did Sherlock even ponder the cumulative effect? Where did he get the chemical? Does he keep oblivion smoke curtains at hand at all times? Did he take enough care to hold his scarf to his nose and not breathe in the same chemical the rest of us got deuced with?

'I wish you would speak to me, John', Sherlock tells me, seriously. I look up and see his worry written all over his face.

'I'm alright, Sherlock', I assure him, in a coarse voice.

He hums. 'I should think you are more comfortable now.'

Outside the police van or the jail, and free? _Yeah, sure._

Sherlock leans forward and jingles a few keys in a ring before trying them on the cuffs that still unite my hands together. 'How did you get the keys to the handcuffs?' I ask, surprised.

'Lestrade passed me the spare keys when no one was looking, obviously.'

 _Greg's in on it too, then_. But for now he needs to keep his support under wraps. His job and professional reputation are at stake. Worse than that, it could jeopardize the cases he's already closed by throwing suspicion on his methods.

'Do you have a plan, Sherlock? I mean, a real plan? Or are you playing by ear?'

He shrugs his shoulders. 'A bit of both', he answers me. 'I've been assured I'm a good musician anyway.'

 _ **.**_

Sherlock brought me to the safest place in London. Unfortunately we cannot stay long in our refuge from the world. Baker Street is a formidable safe ground, but also an easy location to find Sherlock Holmes and doctor Watson.

I think Sherlock wanted to get a few things that may come handy before we really get on the run. Scientific research stuff, my gun, some thousands of pounds in non-sequential unmarked bills, the lot.

He's still a but concerned after he had to knock me out for the Great Police Van Escape. Perhaps that's why he's left me with Mrs Hudson downstairs. Or perhaps he just didn't trust me with the stairs just yet, my balance still a bit compromised.

Maybe he just feared I might get selfless and give myself in to spare my friend's professional career.

I really should. I don't deserve Sherlock as my best friend at times like these. For now I'm desperately holding on to the hope that Sherlock's reputation can be spared, that is participation remains unknown, or his big brother sponges it all from the official records. I should just thank Sherlock, refuse any more help, give myself in and accept what justice may bring. But I fear the set up was too well executed. If I can't even recall what I did in the time elapsed, how can I prove what I _didn't do,_ from jail?

Meanwhile Mrs Hudson is watching over me with motherly concern. I decide she needs to hear me say it:

'I didn't do it, Mrs Hudson. I can't prove it to you, but I didn't do what they accuse me of.' _She must believe me._

I stand in her kitchen as a fugitive from the law, a common criminal like the ones Sherlock and I have protected so many times in our cases.

She brushes off my emotional pledge with a tea towel thrown my way. 'Just get the scones out of the oven for me, dear.'

'Did you hear what I said, Mrs Hudson?' I ask sharply, setting my shoulders straight.

'Of course I did, dear, I'm old but not deaf.'

'And you rather talk about ...scones?'

'Someone needs to feed you up, young man. Otherwise being a runner is going to turn you into skin and bones. And all the daredevil excitement, with Sherlock by your side...' She shakes her head sadly. 'I'll make you a nice picnic basket for you two to take along. You like scotch eggs, don't you?' I nod, not because I want to answer, but this is Mrs Hudson – you must answer Mrs Hudson. It's an unspoken rule.

She hums a little cheery tune under her breath as she gets the tea ready, completely unfazed. 'Mrs H, they think I murdered someone', I blurt out. _It's only right that she knows the facts._

You don't lie to Mrs Hudson either.

'That's okay, dear. I'm used to murderers, hitmen, blackmailers, smugglers, and my late husband's friends from the cartel. They were always a lively bunch, never a dull moment when they came for dinner.'

'I didn't do it', I add timely, with a frown.

'I know, dear. Your temper is so much better these days.'

'I wouldn't', I add a bit more forcefully.

'Well...' she starts back, eyeing me wisely, and then grabbing a rag to mop the table. I gulp and correct myself:

'I wouldn't murder someone cold-heartedly with them unarmed, with no justification. It's wrong and I wouldn't stand for that.' I stand up straighter. 'I try to hold myself to a higher standard.'

She finally stops scrubbing some tea stain from the kitchen table top. 'We know that, dear. And besides if you really wanted to off someone, you're a doctor, surely you'd find better to ways to do it without leaving a trace. Or you'd ask our Sherlock for help, he'd make it all neat just for you, John.'

I blink, wondering exactly how I ended up being the normal one upon Baker Street's loving but dysfunctional family. _Wouldn't want it any other way._

'Thanks for believing in me, Mrs Hudson', I say with my best smile. It comes out feeble and tired, but she is immediately bestowed by it. She makes me sit at the table and gives me the biggest scone even before Sherlock comes back from securing the perimeter.

He won't be happy when he finds out he missed out on the bigger blueberry scones from the baking tray.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	37. Chapter 37

_A/N: Had some problems uploading this, I'm sorry for the delay; feels like everything in my life is hitting brick walls right now. I'm starting to get used to fighting muddled waters to get the easiest things done, which, in essence, is really sad to be getting used to. Here's to coffee! -csf_

* * *

 ** _. 3rd_**

Sherlock grabs my jumper forcefully, the one he insisted I swapped into before we left Baker Street's safety. His insistence had little to do with a sense of fashion that matches his pristine, well-cut suits. I rather believe it was because he couldn't stand watching me in a London borough jail issued sweatshirt.

Sherlock either despised the colour, the large shapeless format, the standardized issue implying I'm a criminal, or all of the above.

I strain immediately under the strength of my friend's tight grasp, as he pulls me down, hiding me behind a big bin, as a patrol car passes by lazily on the street. The officers patrolling nod at Sherlock and he won't even acknowledge them; _business as usual._

None seems to pay attention to the posh looking carry-on bag Sherlock drags behind him. He could have brought my old canvas bag – standard army issue – but I guess it'd stand out too much. That little luggage piece is full of selected items from Baker Street, most of which I have no idea why Sherlock chose to bring them along. It's bound to be the oddest overnight bag I could have wished for. All I did was ask my friend if he could get me some stuff I need in the next couple of days, while I showered and got the last lingering residues of blood and numbness out of my skin. Much to my surprise he agreed at once.

I'm a bit apprehensive as to what might actually be in the bag now. Sherlock always packs the most outrageous overnight bags.

As I come out of hiding in the street, Sherlock is oddly playing with his phone, then raising it up in the air, as one would when looking for better reception. This is London, and a prime location at that. How can Sherlock's phone be failing him?

'Sherlock, forget your phone, we need to get a move on. _Fugitive_ here, remember?' I hush my words to fit them to the space between us.

A dark shadow flickers across his face instantaneously. He demands, lowering his phone only fractionally: 'Never call yourself that, John.'

I shrug, looking away. 'It's a word, Sherlock, just that.' _One I must start getting used to, just in case._

'Words have the ability to trickle inside you, if you let them. Never let someone label you. You are not a fugitive nor a criminal. Not you, John. Never you', he insists, firmly, passionately. _He's the best mate one could ask for._

'Sherlock...' I sigh. 'Call me a runaway, then, or whatever you like, but – for heaven's sake – can we get off the streets and go somewhere safe? If I get caught, and you are with me, it won't look good on you.'

He doesn't seem preoccupied at all. 'That was a patrol car, John, surely you recognised the two officers in the vehicle.'

I cross my arms in front of me. 'Not really, no, on account of trying to hide myself from them, the cctv cameras and the passersby', I reply, short-tempered.

The detective frowns. 'The passersby are a nuisance, agreed, but their recounts are less reliable in court. As to the cctv cameras, I have disabled them in one hundred meters of our vicinity. Approximately, of course. A perfect radius of a hundred meters around a moving target would be easily noticed.'

'How did you do that?' I asked, amazed.

'There's an app for that, John.'

'What? No! No, there isn't, Sherlock. At least I hope not.' I blink, really confused.

'There is on my phone. I'm quite sure. I've just used it.'

'Amazing.' A small smile creeps in at last.

'You've already said that, John.' He pretends to study a window shop display full of porcelains and crystals. Baker Street's eclectic style might get an unusual addition, if one's to trust Sherlock's close attention.

'I'm still amazed', I justify myself. He deserves to know that. Even if he's pretending to study the pointless knickknacks with scientific wonder.

 ** _._**

St Bart's is another home away from home, and I start to wonder if Sherlock is trying to soften my reclusive escape from mainstream society. Although it's Sherlock, of course, who's truly at home in the bleached corridors of the morgue, located at basement level. The dead never called Sherlock a "freak" over his forensic experimentations, nor would they call me out as a runaway from justice.

Molly Hooper is another familiar face that greets the Baker Street's duo with complicit secrecy. Immediately her eyes are upon Sherlock in a kneejerk reaction from her old crush on the detective.

'Oh my, Sherlock, are you alright? This must have been hard on you. I mean, on John.' She shuts her eyes tight and regroups. 'No, actually I mean on both, the both of you.'

Sherlock unites his hands behind his back and declares, simply, as if it was his self-appointed mission: 'I'm taking care of John.'

Much to my surprise Molly quietens down at that, approvingly. 'I've got the body you wanted, Sherlock. It's in the refrigeration unit.'

'May I have a look?' he asks her, politely. Again, behaving himself to the point that he doesn't quite sound like the old Sherlock anymore to me.

'Knew you'd want to. John...' she addresses me for the first time. 'Would you prefer to wait outside?'

I feel a bit put-off by her offer. There's no need for mollycoddling me. I know dead bodies, I've been to the war, I know what death looks like, in many shapes and forms.

'Maybe I can be of use, find something to help prove I didn't do it, Molly.'

She fakes a brave smile, that doesn't disguise her doubtfulness. 'If you're sure', she mutters meekly, already rotating to face the long wall full of doors to the long drawers that bury themselves on the wall at low temperature. She pulls one open without needing to consult the log. Again, I have this feeling that she had already been through the "save John Watson's name" effort before we arrived, and came up empty.

The drawer slides towards us, crossing the tight space between Sherlock and I. The lingering signs of violence are present on the body, along with the smell of decay. Rigor mortis has settled, giving the once average human being a grotesque appearance, exacerbated by the white tinge of the skin where the dark cuts and sutures from the autopsy jump out at once.

I look away, feeling drained. _Yes, I'm familiar with death; yet it always feels so wrong._

'Definitely an overkill', Sherlock pronounces at once, as he takes out his hand lenses from a coat pocket, ready to analyse the minutia in the corpse. 'John is a soldier, he'd be more frugal and effective. He's also a neat-freak, he'd not be so... messy.'

'It was a brutal attack', Molly agrees. 'He suffered a bit', she adds with an emphatic nod. 'Looks personal', she comments, then looks at me, to gage my reaction.

'I never saw him before in my–' I cut myself short. Only _I must_ have seen him before. I just _cannot remember_. There is no epiphany, no dramatic moment of revelation. 'Have you identified him yet, Molly?'

'The fingerprints data base program is still running, John. No results yet. But that's good, right? That you don't know who he is. Or was.'

Sherlock comments, absentminded: 'It'd be easier to defend John from killing someone he knew, though. John, are you sure this man has never been a patient of yours who was unhappy with his diagnose, a rejected client we turned away, an ex-boyfriend of one of your boring past girlfriends?'

I find myself trembling silently. 'I didn't kill him', I say flatly. 'Stop looking for reasons why I would have killed him. I'm not a murderer.'

'I'm a detective, John. I need to ponder all angles.'

 _I thought he believed in me._ I shiver more deeply and look away. The smell of congealed blood and disinfectant are getting to me. Can hardly hear the two death enthusiasts speaking to each other in playful chat over a cold corpse. Before I break down, I move away, rushing out of the autopsy room. I don't even look back.

 ** _._**

The door to the old amphitheatre opens softly not even five minutes later and the tall figure of Sherlock Holmes comes in. He walks towards me as the light from the corridor behind him eclipses slowly, as the door closes back by action of its attached spring.

'Good escape, John', he comments appreciatively. 'However, there's a distinct lack of ambition as you carried it through.'

I hiccup a smile, as I could have a sob or a shout.

'What if I did it, Sherlock?' I ask the dark around us, as heavy as my mood. 'What if I did kill the victim?'

'Why would you think that, John?' he asks cautiously. Maybe he already believes it too.

'I remember blood, lots of blood', I confess in a tight whisper. My voice about to betray me and break down.

'That's to be expected. You came out of that alley covered in it, after all.'

I raise my voice, to make it stronger: 'People don't usually start bleeding when I speak to them!'

He hums, to let me know he has heard me. I listen to him settling himself beside me, sitting on the floor like me.

'Did you speak to him, then?'

I shake my head, but he probably can't see it in the almost complete darkness. 'I don't know.'

'You just said it, John. Perhaps it's a hidden recollection of yours, speaking to him.'

'If I saw him bleeding in an alley, I would have said something to him, surely.'

The detective hums in agreement. 'Possibly even help, as a doctor', he suggests.

'Certainly. I wouldn't walk away from a fatally injured man, Sherlock.' I look up, aggravated.

'Thus getting yourself covered in his blood, John. The splashes of blood in your shirt were consistent with attempted CPR to save his life.'

'They are also consistent with me stabbing him in the first place, according to the Scotland Yard', I remind him bitterly.

'Yeah, but we know how good the Scotland Yard is at solving cases when compared to me.' Sherlock chuckles softly. 'Who would you rather believe?' he asks me, deviously, to choose which truth I'd rather have.

'What if I did it, Sherlock?'

'You had no reason to do it.'

'What if I did it because I lost my reason, my sane mind?'

He chuckles again. 'I'm afraid you give yourself mental processes credits it does not own, John. I know you, better than possibly I know anyone else in this world, and you can trust me when I say you have not killed this stranger in an alley, unprovoked and with a knife you do not own.'

 _Thanks_. His faith in me is unwavering and heart warming.

'What about the knife?' I ask, grabbing onto small talk to keep me company, a clear evidence that Sherlock is at my side in the dark.

'Army knife, standard issue. Cheap shot, from someone who read your blog and knows you've been in the army.'

The seconds carry on, undisturbed, until Sherlock prompts me coyly, as if it was too much already: 'What about the army knife, John? Do you remember something?'

'I don't know', I say, trembling again. _Why can't I remember?_ 'I'm not sure', I further say; _too vague!_ 'I think I recall thinking back on the army today. I recall going to my box of old stuff and... I held my tags in my hand... Sherlock, I looked at my army identification tags.' I look up, hopeful and fearful in equal amounts. 'Does that mean anything to you?'

'You must have already been drugged', he notices, surprised. 'That happened before you left Baker Street. No reason why you would be fuzzy on that, unless you had already been drugged.'

'At Baker Street? How?'

'Think, John!' His voice is animated, energetic now. 'Was there a client showing up unexpectedly at 221B? A letter seemingly posted to you that didn't carry a postal stamp? A food delivery that you didn't order? Any way in which you could have been drugged?'

I shake my head and groan. 'Can't remember, Sherlock!' _Been telling him that all along!_

He sighs. 'It's alright, John. We'll get to the bottom of this. Give me time.'

I swallow dry, looking away. 'I'm sorry I'm such a lousy client.'

I can almost hear a fond smile on his next few words: 'As a client you are a delicious mystery, John. As always, you do not disappoint.'

 ** _._**

 ** _TBC_**


	38. Chapter 38

_A/N: There's always a bit of "just wanna add this and that" involved. Told you I'm not a writer!_ _-csf_

* * *

 _ **. 4th**_

What have Big Ben's clock face, a leaning tomb and a blind greenhouse in common? Well, they are all Sherlock's known boltholes. Known to his big brother Mycroft, perhaps even known to DI Lestrade by now. And if those two are on our side, it's the off chance that someone else might have got wind of Sherlock's hideouts from the world, that has made my best friend opt today for other such safe places, less known. His emergency boltholes, I should imagine, that he never intended not even me to know.

Well, he's graciously given up their knowledge to me, now his main priority is to keep me safe. I'm a runaway, a fugitive from justice. I will remain so as long as it takes for Sherlock Holmes to prove my innocence. You see, _I'm lucky that way_. I've got the best friend in the world that one would need when unjustly accused of murdering a man.

More than that, Sherlock took my word for it when I stated I was innocent. It wasn't a small gesture, not when I cannot remember any event in my life around the time of the murder. Sherlock is sure I was drugged and planted at a scene of a fresh crime. After that, I behaved brilliantly; as far as the plotter is concerned. I must have tried to save the dying man's life, getting myself covered in his blood. If it wasn't bad enough I came out of the alley looking dazed and lost, an immediate magnet for the police. The rest of the story being made as we speak.

 _ **.**_

'Sherlock, slow down! You've got bloody long legs!'

My friend reduces his pace fractionally, discretely glancing around us in the crowded streets of London. Among the busy passersby, the never-ending flow of tourists and all the other urban creatures, Sherlock and I have a slight anonymity. People notice us, but they do not pay attention. They recognise us at times, but blood lusted for celebrities, soon they forget us for someone else. Sherlock and I keep marching briskly across London's streets, hoping to reach Sherlock's safe place soon.

'Where are we going to?' I ask my mad friend, in a harsh whisper.

'To the Royal Pharmaceutical Society of Great Britain, John!'

I blink. 'Hm... Very nice, we can learn a lot, I'm sure, but Sherlock... it's not really the time to go to a museum.'

'Nonsense, John, it's always the right time to visit a museum!'

I squint. 'Tell me you actually have a plan.'

He glances my way. 'Of course I do. You overwork me that way, John. Always demanding plans, actions, results...'

I frown. _What?_

'So, why the Royal Pharmaceutical Society? Is there a particular exhibit you are keen on?'

'Of course not. What we need we can only find in the museum's deep basement and archive. You'll see.'

'Is this still about the drugs?' I hazard a guess.

He nods briefly. 'Obviously, John. What else?'

With Sherlock, _what else_ could be just about anything.

 _ **.**_

'It's a health and safety nightmare, Sherlock', I state, sternly.

He shrugs, unapologetic. Possibly because he's already got it his way, as always. 'It's a qualitative analysis, John, of any unusual chemical substances present in your blood.'

'It's been hours. I don't feel hazy anymore. How would you still find traces of whatever they used to knock me silly?'

'The drug has metabolized, it doesn't necessarily mean that it's gone. Byproducts and physiological reactions that respond to the earlier stimulus should still be occurring and can be picked up on if we pay close enough attention.'

I sigh. 'Are you making that up?' I ask, frontally.

'Just a little', he admits, 'but it's worth a shot.'

I shrug. 'You just want to have a play with the cool stuff at the museum', I deduce him. He smirks along, opening archive boxes full of laboratory paraphernalia.

 _ **.**_

Metal supports holding fractional distillation columns separate the dark viscous liquid from its transparent plasma that swirls down to a conical flask with a bright fluorescent liquid bubbling happily. Whatever the strange analysis Sherlock is setting up with my blood sample, it's hazardous and not nearly scientific enough.

It has crossed my medical mind that Sherlock might just be trying to impress me now, trying to help me believe everything will turn out okay.

The deception doesn't bother me much; it's nice to build nice memories, in case I get incarcerated for the anonymous man's murder. I'll have plenty of time to think back on the fun Sherlock and I used to have.

'Sherlock?' I've noticed my friend is looking attentively at me. That didn't bother me; he really does that much more often than any normal person would do, and for longer too. What stroke me uncomfortable was his blank expression, too carefully crafted not to be hiding something deep.

 _I think he's scared for me._

'John?' he calls my name back to me, acting all innocent.

I fake a tired sigh. 'Deducing me again?'

'Err... No.'

I open my arms in surrender. 'Why not make this easier on you? Go on, do your thing now, and then leave me be.' I challenge him.

 _Perhaps I shouldn't have._ Sherlock's eyes open wide and all of a sudden the room feels colder, the air crisp and it's like the lighting changed as well. All sound magically quietens down, all focus is on Sherlock's magnetic gaze upon me. He slides off his chair in a feline move and circles me. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. He won't say a word, so I keep steady, shoulders poised, jaw set.

'Yes...' he starts abruptly. 'I wonder why I stopped doing this. So much information, you are incredibly expressive, an open book really.'

I frown on him. 'You stopped because I insisted. I'm not a lab specimen in a formaldehyde jar.'

He shrugs, inconsequentially. 'How's the headache, John?'

I'm taken by surprise. 'Much better, thanks.'

'Not all gone, though. There's a deep inset crinkle there', he points to some spot on my face, 'that is present only when you are in pain. The severity of its crease a direct variable to the amount of headache.'

'Oh.' I won't comment.

'Then there's your clothes.'

'My clothes?' I repeat.

'Not your standard issue Scotland Yard shirt replacement, one of your favourite jumpers. And aren't you a bit too old to have favourite jumpers? Never mind. I guessed you earned that right. No. I mean your jeans. Not your best pair, been through the washing machine so many times the denim has faded and the seams at the cuffs are threadbare. They are deformed from repeated usage and accommodate your needs well. It is an old piece you seem to favour when you are having a quiet day in. Ergo, you did not expect any formal or important meetings today, as you got dressed in the morning. No work either, you favour more formal, darker tones for work days. Yet you always keep an eye on comfort, that is the one luxury you relish on. Whether it's an old worn shirt, a shapeless jumper or a threadbare pair of jeans. John Watson has been through the army and the war; he has earned comfort.'

'When you put it like that...'

'Then there's your shoes.'

'My shoes?' I do a double take.

'Mud splatters, tiny ones, more likely urban residues and not open rural areas bigger smudges. Not enough in quantity to account for a longer time outdoors than the three and a half miles you walked or travelled to get to the alley. That suggests you went directly to the rendezvous. You are a fit man, you could do the distance on foot in about an hour. Likely you only left Baker Street to lest up with someone. Maybe the victim. Whoever it was, you went without delay, not changing to a better fitting, or more professional ensemble. That suggests the nature of your meeting was not formal. Now, I've checked your phone already – of course I have John, there could have been leads there! – and there were no prior contacts, just a lot of recent web searches on types of skin rashes. Three things, John. One: as a doctor you are not supposed to diagnose yourself. Two: it's clearly just a contact allergy. Three: I may have misplaced some of my sodium hydroxide on the sofa's tweed pillow. I will personally take it to the cleaners if you'll kindly stop using the long sofa as a bed. Kindly remember you will have a bedroom upstairs.'

'Thanks?' I say, unsure, mindlessly scratching my neck.

'Welcome', he replies at once, confidently.

'No recent unexpected contacts on your phone suggest very strongly the lure came to you at Baker Street by post or in person. I asked Mrs Hudson and there have been no visitors. No better fountain of information than a nosy landlady conveniently living below our flat.'

'Your flat now', I correct him.

'Nonsense, you have a room upstairs, John', he ignores my contribution. 'I suspect a letter. Easy to manipulate and it wouldn't miss the attention of the man who has always done the archives, bookkeeping and handled my clients. By the way, John, many potential clients just show up at the door now. The front door is never locked and many just worm their way upstairs and make themselves at home, using me as their "dear diary". It's insufferable that I have to listen to their stories to know if their cases are worthwhile. You used to take care of that for me. You are slacking lately.'

I smirk, knowing he's not that useless himself. _At least, I don't think so. He's just lazy that way._

'Can't remember any letter, Sherlock', I remind him, crossing my arms in front of me.

'I suspected as much', he says, pained. 'That entails that the drug was administered to you as early as the arrival of the post. In fact, the letter was most likely the vehicle for the drug.'

'Wouldn't the postman get dosed too?'

'Not if it was inside the envelope.'

'On the paper, you mean?'

'Or hidden in a small spring mechanism that jumped at you and nicked your upper layers of the epidermis, superficially.'

'How do you know this?' I suspect.

He produces a plastic bag with a crunched piece of paper from within his coat. 'I picked it up from the kitchen bin. Where you disposed of it. I knew where to look. You are way too tidy, John.'

Again, he's messing with me, gaging my reaction.

'Can that prove I was drugged?' I ask eagerly, hopeful.

'I'm afraid not. The sample is too degraded by oxidation with the air. The envelope is lined with plastic. It must have been made into a vacuum before posting, and you broke the seal when you opened the letter.'

'And I just threw it away? Not noticing any of that?'

Sherlock looks momentarily confused too. 'Something else got your attention instead. I'd say the written content of the letter.'

'Setting the immediate meeting', I further add. 'And the letter itself?'

'Didn't find it at home or in the alley.'

'Maybe the real murderer took it away. I was dazed, it would have been easy to take it from me. I probably didn't even put up a fight.'

'It was a clever precaution', he agrees.

'Yeah, unfortunately.'

'But he didn't quite count on your soldier background shinning through.'

'What do you mean?' I ask at once.

Sherlock smirks fondly, almost proudly. 'You did fight him, John. He was getting something away from you, something you deemed important even in your addled state.'

I look down on my hands. Did he see signs of a fight in them? I took a desperate shower at Baker Street, I must have washed them away.

Then I spot it. Just a small bruise, not really a cut, on my right hand.

'What is this? Did I punch him or what? It's not even my dominant hand.'

'No. It's your gun hand, though', Sherlock points out, very serious. 'I saw it the moment I first laid eyes on you. Why do you think I haven't left you alone for a moment, unless you were surrounded by officers of the law? You used your gun hand, it must mean you _felt threatened_ in that alley. That, John, is something I take very seriously.'

 _ **.**_

I'm looking away to the empty corridor leading to this basement when a pack of crisps lands near me. Guess Sherlock found the vending machine. I snap my attention back to the detective. 'This is all very entertaining for you, I'm sure', I start, as diplomatic as I can given my aggravated headache, 'but is there really a point to all this? Are you just acting out because I'm your friend?'

He smiles briefly at the mention that I'm his friend, and my heart feels constricted for the shy genius that spent so many years in self-imposed isolation.

'You are my client, John', he reminds me I occupy a double position today.

'Then treat me as a client. You are never this nice, this sociable, with our clients.'

He frowns. Maybe he thinks I'm trying to put up a fight because I'm becoming too restless or too selfless.

'Okay. Get up. On your feet, John! And shut up', he adds, as if he'd been dying to say that for a good while.

I swallow dry. _Well, I ask for it, didn't I?_ Asked him to be the jerk, cold detective that can solve the case. Very well, I'll do what I must.

I get up, obediently.

'Your blood sugar levels have plummeted. Hence, you are currently grumpy. Still, you raise an important point, John. You can be my client. More so than that, you can be my victim.'

 _Well, doesn't that sound ominous?_ I'm immediately intrigued as to what he means by those strange words.

Sherlock gets up too and circles me again. 'Do keep as still as you can, John.'

I nod, and rapidly realise that's breaking the rules already. I clear my throat and focus on my task, staring blankly ahead.

Sherlock pulls out the magnifying lenses again. Then, focusing on my hands carefully with sudden interest, he pulls out a UV pen. In the dimmed lights basement where the white light from the long lab benches is the only lighting source Sherlock upon us.

 _Is he using forensic techniques on me?_

'Your hands are lighting up, John', he comments, amusedly.

'I've washed my hands', I feel the need to assert.

'I can still discern pen marks, transferred from the wet ink on the paper you wrote on.'

'Don't remember writing anything today, other than signing my name at the Yard, over and over again.'

'It's your left hand, your dominant hand. As in all left-handed people in the occidental culture, when you write you go over the words with your hand, leaving word smudges on the lateral palm of your hand. The effect varies with the type of ink and pen, but it's generally visible regardless, because as you go over the paper the ink hasn't dried completely yet. Therefore you accumulate the mirrored ghosted prints of words on your skin. Stand still, John.'

'Why?'

'I'm cranking my neck here. I prefer to photograph the evidence and study it on my phone.'

'Oh.' Makes sense. 'What does it say?'

He shakes his head, as he shoots the picture under the UV light. 'Not sure. I've got the beginning of the message more clearly than the ending. Perhaps suggesting rush, you hurried over the words too fast, creating a blur on your skin.'

'But what do you have there?'

He angles his phone so I can see it too. 'What can we make of it?' he murmurs.

'A name, a location and something else...' I mutter. _Still doesn't ring a bell._

' "Chandler" – a name; "Cap alley" – a reference to "Cardinal Cap Alley" where the murder took place; and what could potentially be "10" or "11"...' Sherlock reads.

'Chandler...' I repeat. 'Where did I hear that name before?'

'Any memory resurfacing?' Sherlock asks me, hopeful.

I shake my head. Not really, no. 'Think that's a number eleven, for the time', I try to help.

He hums. 'Doctors handwriting', he strikes it off. 'We know the time and the place, John. The name is the valuable clue, when taken into consideration with the previous findings. Army related, this Chandler person who contacted you is most likely the victim and not the murderer.'

'So what are we going to do? Go through the phone book directory and try all the Chandlers in there for one that is army related and that won't pick up the phone? It'd take you forever.'

'No. Not me, John. This is your speciality', he tells me frontally. 'Must I do everything? Get a crack on, John! I'm hoping to get us home for the night.'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	39. Chapter 39

_A/N: I think I have a plot, but I'm not entirely sure. Reserving my right to take down this entire plotline. I may have made a mess of it by now. -csf_

* * *

 _ **. 5th**_

'There's no Chandler with a close link to the army that would not pick up a phone call from John. A couple of them took a while longer to answer, one had almost no voice left after playing a gig with his band last night, and another is currently returning from the A&E with alcohol poisoning after a prolonged binge. That leaves us the inevitable conclusion that "Chandler" is an alias. The man who contacted John didn't want to provide him with his real name.'

'Sherlock thinks the victim is likely to have been a soldier', I report dutifully. I feel doubly examined as I stand, squared shoulders and at parade rest, under the two Holmes brothers scrutiny. Sherlock has once again got us in the move. His next selected pit stop is undoubtedly one of London's mist secure locations; his older brother's bunker-like office.

Again, I suspect Sherlock is feeling out if his depths on this case. He's been instilled since early childhood this notion that Mycroft is "the clever one"; I wouldn't be so sure, but I accept this desperate effort to gain leverage on my case by taking in Mycroft's advice.

Their sibling rivalry is legendary, and usually Sherlock would rather give up brain cells than call on his brother for help. Not this time. For my sake, Sherlock is generously pulling all the stops.

My friend the real detective concurs: 'It's a fairly stable deduction from John's blurred memory of his morning that the victim was probably a soldier, and it would also explain further John's lack of recollection. It goes beyond the normal dissociation imparted by drugs. Usually there's a hazy recollection, mostly basal, built from sensations, feelings, jumbled as they may be. Some memories stick to the brain, even when upon recollection they make poor sense. Not in this case. John holds no memories of smells, sounds, colours, fears, or joys. His mind is a blank slate regarding this elapsed time. Well, blanker than even of usual...' he adds with a dramatic shoulder shrug.

I think he's trying to get to me, but I won't engage. He deflates fast, as he sees I don't puff up and defend myself.

I also save to later analysis Sherlock's easy discourse on mind addling drug's aftereffects.

Sherlock redoubles his energetic stance, as if reading something in me. 'So, the victim was likely an army soldier. The fact that he shows up unexpectedly suggests he was deployed abroad, and was currently on leave in London. We need names and ranks.'

Mycroft dismisses coldly: 'There are too many men, Sherlock, even for someone with my access to the army data bases...' He gestures illusively in thin air. Then leaning forward, still as if slightly inconvenienced, he actually adds helpfully: 'Perhaps we can use the victim's background to narrow down the search, Sherlock.'

'Yes, there was definitely a South American vibe to his features, his clothes style and the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth...'

 _Wrinkles? Are they for real?_ It's almost amusing to watch one Holmes surpass the other.

'John, you do not recall any colleagues who fit this rather vague description?' Mycroft asks me directly.

I shake my head. 'Been trying to remember all my army mates.'

'Or some soldier you treated as an army doctor?'

I shake my head, blank.

Mycroft reads my silent words faster than Sherlock. 'There were so many of them.' He verbalizes my thoughts with no emotion, but behind him Sherlock's attentive gaze he keeps on me grows heavier.

'Meanwhile, I think we can narrow down the search to soldiers of the same rank, or lower, than John's', Mycroft declares.

'Why?' I dare ask.

Mycroft dismisses my curiosity as if it was wasting his time. 'Such soldiers would be more inclined to search for help in you than those of superior ranks, especially in a matter where they clearly were loathsome to follow the appropriate channels and contact the currently serving members of Her Majesty's Armed Forces.'

'You suspect the victim came to me because there was foul play.'

'Obviously'; Mycroft's even rolls his eyes.

'But why me?'

Big brother glances at Sherlock, causing me to do the same. 'You have a reputation, shall we say, for lost causes, brother dear? A fellow soldier that keeps such curious company would entice the victim's interest, I suppose.'

'I'm not a soldier any more!' I cut off Sherlock's answer to his brother's remark.

Mycroft sniggers, Sherlock sighs dramatically. It's my friend who assures me: 'You are still a soldier, always a soldier. It's written in your posture, in the way you act, in the choices you make, John. It's an indelible part of who you are.'

'Sherlock', his brother calls for the detective's attention, 'surely you can use a search algorithm for Latin American common letters association in names and run it through my data base of soldiers on leave.'

Sherlock just nods, humbly. 'I'll need a laptop.' _There's an app for that too_ , I gather.

'Take two', Mycroft offers at once. 'Anthea will show you where they are kept.' Sherlock nods and leaves at once, not without one last worried look at me. Mycroft continues without breaking his speech: 'My office is a secured area, John, and laptops are not trusted here. They are only too easily hacked into. I should know, I've used that expedient on occasion. Take, as an example, the shameful business of the pink rubber duck and the ambassador of–'

I cut in, preoccupied: 'What if none of the remaining names is familiar to me? I saw the body and I didn't recognise that man. Why would he have seek me?'

'In that case', Mycroft leans back on his office chair, 'Anthea can help us. We'll need someone to make phone calls. Dead men don't pick up their phones.'

I blink. 'And what will _I_ do?' What's my part in the operation to save me?

'You'll have a nap, John. You look very run down already. I don't think holding cells make very comfortable lounging areas and if I know my brother, you two must have crisscross half of London before coming to the fraternal protection to ask for help.'

'I don't think I can relax until this business is over', I confess.

'This business, as you call it, John, is a battle. You are familiar with battlefields. You take the breaks you can get, whenever they come, in the heat of battle.'

I stand straighter, as if called to attention. _He's right._ Finally I nod. I got my orders.

This I can do, as my part in the operation.

Guess I'm still a soldier after all.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock lead the way to a small waiting room on the side of Mycroft's top secret office. Not much cosier than the bunker-like office, it offers sumptuous furniture but cold and sterile decor, dated and overly pompous, useless and misfit.

I take a seat at the edge of a sofa there, edged between a colonial marble column that sustains nothing at all and a Ming dynasty vase that holds nothing at all. The sofa is actually quite comfortable, and I don't mind its useless companions. Sherlock takes the individual armchair angled nearby and immediately takes his united fingertips up to his chin, in his customary thinking pose.

I'm too hyped up to rest as I force myself to be still, trying not to disturb my friend's mental processes.

I clear my throat a couple of times.

I start twiddling my thumbs together. It's hardly satisfying.

'Sherlock Holmes is not available at the moment, please leave a message after the beep. _Beeeep!_ '

My sarcastic words hardly permeate my friend's mind palace. Sherlock has dragged me to this latest hideout and then sat, cross-legged on the nearest piece of furniture, and disappeared somewhere in the recesses of his mind.

'Oh, hi, Sherlock, it's John here!' I carry on my invented voice mail message. 'Ugh, any luck finding out why Chandler framed me for murder, by any chance? If not, that's just fine, mate. I get it. I really do. Just in any case, should I cancel my dinner reservations for tomorrow? That's actually fine, I didn't have any.'

Still Sherlock doesn't stir. I sigh and continue, less inspired, but still as wound up:

'Hi there, John Watson speaking, how can I help you? The great Sherlock Holmes? Hm, he's kinda busy right now. Wanna leave a message? Oh, I see. And you say you are the one trying to frame me with an apparently random murder to which you've lured me to, after drugging me? I'm sure he'll return your call. Oh, and can I ask your motive to ruin my life? Oh, I see. You were bored. Huh-huh. You and Sherlock will get along just fine!'

Sherlock grudgingly frowns on me, then returns to his immobility.

I decide to lay off the genius. Picking up loose threads on my jumper's cuff I mutter more to myself now: 'Why did you do it, John? Go meet someone you didn't know? Well, John, Sherlock needed a case, I guess maybe that was why. He keeps repeating that smelly sulfur experiment as if he's waiting for the results to be different the next time. Or maybe the guy just told me he needed my help. I can be such an idiot. I'd fall for that one at once. I'd want to feel useful, feel like I matter and I can make a difference. Guess that's exactly how I get played so easily, so often.' I clear my throat awkwardly. What a mess I got myself into, and dragged Sherlock with me. 'What a fool you can be, John Hamish Watson.' I glance at Sherlock. He's not interested in my soliloquy anyway. He's distanced himself from my mutterings a while ago. 'Why didn't you write down a better message, John? Chandler – _who_ ; but that's not his name, anyway. Cap alley – _where_. Eleven – _when_. You didn't write _why_ , John! You must have asked _why_... Chandler, cap alley, eleven. C-C-A-E? That could be the keys to a melody. C-Ca-11? That could be a top-secret pharmaceutical compound. Morse code? An anagram? I wouldn't complicate things that much, I had nothing to hide anyway. Chandler, cap, alley, eleven...'

Sherlock makes me just about jump off my skin as he suddenly turns on me, intense and frantic. 'Say that again, John! Say it!'

'Chandler, cap alley–'

'No, not like that. The other way!'

'What?'

'You said "Chandler, cap".'

'So?'

'Mycroft was right!'

I frown. 'He'll be pleased to know, I'm sure... Why was he right?'

'You wrote "cap" for "captain", not for the alley, John! The name for the alley is a coincidence, John!'

I shake my head. 'We tried all the Chandlers, including the captains, Sherlock!'

'Yes, but not the captains you knew who could have sent you a private message through a man named Chandler, a simple soldier on leave in London. We tried all the Chandlers residing in London, not the ones currently visiting it.'

 _Guess not, but isn't that way too complicated?_ 'What can we do? Put an information request on the papers?' I shrug.

'Don't be daft. We know where to find him! In one of Molly's goody bags. But we now know he was just a messenger boy, working for an army captain you trust, John.'

'Why wouldn't the captain come to me in person?'

Sherlock shakes his head. 'He knew he was in deep danger and feared for his life. Quite right, too, if we take into consideration what happened to the messenger, most likely due to a mistaken identity.'

'And me? Why drug me through a letter inviting me to meet him?'

'Because somehow the matter was incredibly secretive, perhaps even the location was of relevance.'

'That's stretching it', I warn my desperate friend.

'Not as much as you taking notes from a letter, John. If you had an invite in writing, why did you take notes?'

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. _Honestly, I don't know._

'Because the letter came in code, some sort of code. Morse code, or maybe mentioning people and places by alluding to them indirectly. Somehow you felt you had to take a seat and decrypt the message.'

'Could have been words I found in today's paper, I suppose. Something like the first word of the second line on the third page...'

Sherlock nods, enthusiastic. 'You are clever enough to fulfil small tasks like that.'

'Ta', I respond bitterly, taking him the wrong way. He ignores my sensitive streak.

'That now just leaves a question.'

'Why was I framed for a murder?' I guess.

'Two questions, then', Sherlock corrects his previous statement. 'Why didn't you call me to come along?'

I blink. _Don't know._ That was my downfall.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock is nowhere to be seen as I wake up, blurry eyed and dishevelled haired, from a short power nap on a too comfortable long sofa in the bunker-building's waiting room. I frown as the nagging intermittent noise prolongs itself. A phone vibrating. Not mine, I get, as I pat my pocket to feel its contents. Anyway, Sherlock has long confiscated it, and turned it off so it wouldn't get GPS located by the police – that, incidentally, is after me. Sherlock's phone, then. In his wool coat's pocket.

Surely it's about me. _Hopefully some good news, I sure could use some good news right about now._

I get up and embracing the part of the criminal that the law believes I am, go fishing my friend's pocket for his phone.

'Hi, Molly, it's John here.'

'John!' She appears to be a bit breathless, utterly relieved as I pick up the call. 'Thank god you answered!'

I answer Sherlock's phone lots of times, he's lazy like that.

'Molly, what's wrong?' I focus at once, not feeling sleepy anymore.

'Sherlock is on his way to you, John. You mustn't feel frightened. It's going to be okay.'

'That's not helping, Molly', I say through greeted teeth. 'What happened? Is Sherlock alright? Did something happen to him?'

'No! Not to Sherlock. He came here to have another look at the body. But when I got the drawer open... It was empty, John.'

'Someone has released the body to a funerary agency already? Has it been claimed by family?'

'Of course not, there's been no positive identification yet. The morgue's been robbed. Sherlock is convinced the murderer has penetrated St Bart's to do it. Sherlock took one look at the paper log and went very pale. Next thing I knew he was literally running out the door, John. I know he believes the murderer is about to strike again, on you, John, because you were the real target all along. Being framed for a murder you didn't do was just the complicated way to get about it. Now the murderer is cleaning up loose ends and...'

'Molly, there's something you're not telling me', I just know it.

'It was made to look like you did it, John. The corpse snatching from the morgue. The robber left something of yours behind, something he should never have had.'

'Molly, you're still not spelling it out. I'm not Sherlock bloody Holmes, I can't deduce it', I warn her.

'Blooming hell, John!' she snaps. 'Your army tags got left behind! The murderer had your tags and he left them at the site of a robbery to frame you! Sherlock is not happy about this!'

I lower my phone, with completely numb fingertips. Molly's voice continues with redoubled wind over the small speaker but I'm transported miles away in my mind. I remember holding my tags in my hand. I remember squeezing them tight, saying goodbye. I was about to lose them. I was about to give them away. My tags for someone in a dire situation, in need of help. A passport to someone's trust in me.

 _I was to save a life._

I got interrupted when the man I found was bleeding heavily, stabbed.

In the end, I couldn't save him. I had no meds, to bandages, no instruments. I was virtually powerless. As the mastermind of the whole thing knew I'd be. He dosed me so I wouldn't put up a good fight, so he could have my army tags. That's what he was after all along. The real victim was merely an expedient to get to me. And from me they needed three things: to stop me from helping someone (I never got to know who), to get me out of the way (frame the murder on me) and my army tags (keeping me out of the way). When deployed, my tags were my ID. Now I've returned they are still a proof of identity. The murderer is not yet done with smearing my name. All to prevent me to get to the truth.

If Chandler was the victim, then how did I get lured miles away on foot?

I put back Sherlock's phone to his coat pocket and briskly turn to leave the room. _Sherlock will deduce where to find me._

 _I need some time out, on my own._

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	40. Chapter 40

_A/N: I still don't know what I'm doing. -csf_

* * *

 _ **. 6th**_

I'm either the most daring fugitive of justice in the Yard's history, or I'm the dumbest. _Don't really care, right now._

 _The difference between heroics and stupidity is often the end result of the daring move._ If I have success I'll be one cocky bastard; if not, I'll be the village idiot.

I've come directly to Scotland Yard's premises in London. Came in through the front door, and I wait impatiently at the reception desk to save some busy officer come over to me.

The fact that I haven't been jumped on, wrestled to the ground, cuffed and dragged away just goes to show that I haven't yet made it to the Most Wanted Wall.

A noise clatters behind me, at the glass front door, and I turn my head, like most officers. _That's a bit clumsy, Greg._

DI Greg Lestrade just dropped the badge he was holding on the fake marble floor. Upon the quietness of the Yard's big entrance, the noise sounded harsh and brittle. He takes a couple of confused seconds to pick it up from the floor, by then muttering some sardonic comment under his breath. He dismisses his mates who seem to have gone with him for a late night snack, and comes over to me with a fake, strained smile.

'John, come with me', he directs in almost a hiss. A polite hiss from an officer of the law.

'I'm afraid I can't. I need to see someone.' I stand my ground.

'Damn it, John, you are not doing this!' he tries to order me, almost fatherly. 'Sherlock needs you, if you give up he'll spiral out of control.'

I squint. _Greg thinks I'm giving myself in, that I've given up._ That Sherlock's efforts were in vain.

'It's not what you think', I try to convey the important message.

'It doesn't matter what I think. None of you listens anyway. But if Sherlock goes into relapse because you're not there and he–'

I raise a forbidding hand. 'He wouldn't. He doesn't need me like that. He's stronger than you give him credit for some times, Greg. Anyway, I'm here because I need to speak to Chandler.'

'Yes, Sherlock told me about the four words you wrote down, John', Greg's anger gives way to some curiosity. 'Sherlock was looking for that Chandler soldier. Any luck yet?'

I shake my head. _Greg hasn't understood yet._

'Chandler wasn't a soldier, that was the easy inference. A fallacy we fell for because the victim fit the soldier profile. He was fit enough, authoritative enough, and whatever Sherlock spots when he deduces soldiers. I wrote down "Chandler, cap, alley" in that order, prior to that meeting. I meant "Chandler, the captain, in the alley". But I didn't mean army captain. I meant police captain.'

Greg shakes his head, blank. 'There's no such rank in the United Kingdom.'

'No. But there is in the United States. That's where I once met a captain Chandler, in fact. The one who seems to be after me now.'

'You've been to the States?' Greg stops short. I start to understand Sherlock's impatience when we take forever following his deduction being explained.

'They don't call me "Three Continents Watson" for nothing...' I shrug. 'I've served abroad', I summarize simply.

'Why didn't you say something about that officer Chandler, John?'

'It was a long time ago. I had forgotten him. And the man has changed his looks and disguised his accent. Most of all, because when I saw him again, he was playing a legitimate roll and I didn't pay attention. He blended in. Maybe there were even some drug residues left floating down my bloodstream. I'll certainly tell Sherlock that, he's always berating me for not paying enough attention.'

'John?' Greg doesn't get it.

'You called him Chandler too, when he got me out of the detention cell and in your presence, and Sherlock's. It was a hell of a coincidence _everyone_ in this past twenty-four hours turns out to be called "Chandler".'

Greg looks speechless for a second. 'What? Him? The grumpy officer?' The penny drops and Greg grabs me by the elbow, insistently, pushing me aside in the Scotland Yard's entrance hall. 'John, are you telling me he set you up?'

'Yeah', I agree calmly. 'Where is he?'

'Didn't turn up for work after lunch, don't know.'

I sigh. _Figured it was all going too easily._

'But why would he do that, John?'

I shake my head.

'That I don't know yet. It might take Sherlock Holmes himself to explain his motives.'

Greg looks me up and down and makes a stern decision: 'You're coming with me, John. _Now._ '

'You're not turning me in?' I mock, Greg's already forcibly pushing me along with him to the cold night air outside.

'No way. I suspect Sherlock still keeps some dealers contacts at hand, I'm not taking any chances', Greg assures me, fatherly.

 _ **.**_

Greg's car is parked outside the main building. We walk towards it with the experienced detective inspector always glancing over his shoulder. I frown. Greg's got it wrong. I came to Scotland Yard to face down the man who framed me for murder, not to run from the murderer. Grudgingly I'm still following Greg, only the desire to keep his professional reputation intact edging me on now.

Chandler didn't make it back to work. He's out there, scavenging London to find me. He needs to finish the job. I'm the last link in the chain. He tried discrediting me and it didn't work. So he forced his way into Molly's morgue and snatched the body, leaving my army tags as conclusive evidence behind. As to silencing me, he will try a more definite approach now. He needs to. Only way he can make the whole case neat and clean. _John Watson killed a man in an alley. Later, full of regret, he killed himself. Two deaths. That retired soldier wasn't right in the head._

We stop by Greg's car and I'm about to protest when the inspector cuts me off, tired and short-tempered: 'Just get in, John. I want to find Chandler too and you're going to need the help. You've got rid of Sherlock somehow. You are not pushing me away next, so save it!'

I close my mouth, feeling a bit put off.

We get inside the small city car, and I still blurt out: 'You are putting your job on the line for me. I'm not worth it.'

'Just drop it, John. You'd do the same for me.'

I sit straighter, speechless. Greg smirks smugly at my reaction and starts his car, driving us out of the parking lot.

Sure is an improvement from the last time I left the premises, in a prisoners van.

'So, where's Sherlock?' The inspector starts conversationally. Again, sounding a bit fatherly.

'Searching for me by now.' I shrug. 'It's alright. He always finds me', I add neglectfully.

Greg glances at me, surprised by my selfishness. 'Why did you push him way? You know he's desperate to help you.'

'This is something I need to do myself. Been pressuring too many good people to put their livelihoods at stake for me already', I answer, indulging in a healthy dose of self-loathing.

Greg's eyebrows shoot up, and by the time they come down he's visibly calmer. 'Almost didn't recognise you there for a while, John. So this is what Sherlock meant when he said you needed to be under constant watch so we'd stop you being selfless.'

'That's nonsense', I spat out at once. 'Been on my own, saving myself for much longer than Sherlock has been calling himself a detective.'

Greg glances somewhere in the region of my left shoulder but declines his chance to say something. Probably for the best too, I'm growing a dark mood.

'Shit.'

Greg's sudden cursing calls me back with a start. His eyes are fixed on the rear view mirror. 'We're being tailed', he announces.

'The police?'

'I'm the police.'

'No, I mean the rest of the police.'

'No, I don't think so. Might even be your secret admirer, John.'

I smile dangerously. 'Good. Saving me the hassle of finding him. Just turn towards somewhere quiet, will you?'

He glances at me. 'I'm not liking this, John', he warns me. 'One minute you are too selfless, the next too reckless.'

'I'm that sort of guy. Take it or leave it type.'

Greg looks less assured by the second. He's not used to dealing with captain "Three Continents" Watson, I gather.

'What were you doing in America, John?'

I shrug. 'I was an army doctor, remember?'

'You're deflecting, aren't you?'

Keeping my eyes glued on my side's rearview mirror, I notice: 'He's coming closer. Looks like someone at the Yard tipped him off.'

'This isn't good, John.'

First thing he said in this damned car ride that I agreed with wholeheartedly.

 _ **.**_

The first impact of metal on metal strikes me for being so loud. The crunching and scrapping noise reverberates inside Greg's small city car, as we're jolted frontward by the sheer force of the collision.

'Here!' Greg hastens to pass me his service gun from the glove compartment. Another undeniable proof of his full trust in me.

Smirking confidently I open the passenger's window at my side and hold the service weapon in what Sherlock would call my gun hand, aiming to the tyres in the car pursuing us. I'll need him alive and talking, if I'm to prove my innocence.

I exhale slowly and, on a long straight stretch of the road, away from passersby, I pull the trigger.

Only an innocent click greets me. No deflagration, no bullets in the gun's chamber. I look over to Greg. His face tells me all I need to know. _Someone hacked his gun._ I should have seen it coming. Greg was supportive of me in front of Chandler. The murderer is still tying loose ends.

I search the glove compartment to find more bullets, to load the gun. There's none there.

Another impact at the rear of the car sends the steering into some faulty mode and Greg struggles desperately to hold down the wheel and keep us on the road.

'Hold on!' he shouts to me.

We both feel the next approach build up and when the impact comes both Greg and I have braced ourselves for the inevitable.

The car breaks down, unresponsive to Greg's desperate movements at the wheel. The tyres skid on the road as he tries to break, to stop our incredible speed. We lose contact with the road. There's shrubs, and a ditch, and a fence we break in two, and only pain and darkness after that.

 _ **.**_

I come to at once, my senses tingling, especially the one that foresees danger. I shake my head to try to clear it a bit. It hurts and sways but soon my vision centres again. I'm still in the car, the front window is cracked to a myriad of tiny, hanging pieces of glass. It's peaceful and tantalisingly beautiful, with the sun straining through in sharp patches from the vegetation around us, sheltering us. Greg is resting neatly against the inflated airbag, unresponsive. I can see his steady breathing and no major damage at first glance. Behind us, from the road, there's the sound of someone braving through the rough terrain to get to us.

 _Need to get out of here._

 _Not leaving Greg behind, at the mercy of a murderer._

As if in a dreamlike state, I perform the necessary tasks. Release the seat belt, unjam the door at my side, get up, empty the contents of my stomach, walk round the car, open Greg's door, realise I owe Greg a new car and that is the smallest item on my debt list to him, assess Greg medically quickly, pull him out and drag him away from the sinister site.

We hide in the nearby shrubs, keeping still.

That's when I lay eyes on Chandler again. The man who put my life upside down. The murderer that almost got away with it.

The cold man approaches the car, gun in hand. He takes a quick glance to the inside and looks around, searching us, gun at ready. He doesn't see us hiding in the bushes nearby.

I need to keep Greg safe. He's at his most vulnerable, unconscious and superficially hurt.

I need to lure Chandler away. I'm the main target, he's sure to come after me.

I lay Greg back on the damp grass and prairie patch, carefully. I take off my jumper, roll it to a messy lump and place it under his head.

'I'm really sorry for this, Greg', I murmur, even if I know he won't listen. Then I get to his pockets, extract his phone, and text Sally's number for help. I've got no exact location but she'll triangulate the phone's signal. I may not think much of Sally's professionalism, but I have to give it to her that she's loyal to her boss and her career. She'll come, I know she will.

Meanwhile, I'll get Chandler away by giving him what he wants: _me_.

 _ **.**_

I'm running. Adrenaline courses through my veins like glass shards. My shoulder pain stabs me with every stumble in the irregular terrain, my legs feel unsteady, but it hardly matters. I've got my wish. Chandler is after me. Greg is safely behind, about to get rescued.

I keep all my energy focused on running. I run as if Sherlock was by my side, and we were catching bad guys. I run as if the insurgents were shooting at us from the other side of the sand hills. I run as if I could outrun my own destiny.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	41. Chapter 41

_A/N: Rewrote this one so many times. Had different continuations and all. In the end I had to opt to not overcomplicate. And so, suddenly, its the last one for this plotline._

 _2nd A/N: Over 100 thousand words in forty "chapters". Wow. Guess I have a lot to say after all. (People generally use me as a listener, and space out when it's not their turn in the spotlight. As a result, I've got a bunch of drama queens on a time-out.) -csf_

* * *

 _ **. 7th and last**_

I run, run as fast as I can. I run through the shambles of overgrown vegetation, through the industrial landscape of old rundown factories and piles of rubbish left to rust in the English drizzle by the train tracks. I run as I'm being chased, my pursuer not giving in an inch as he tries to claw his way to me.

 _Greg is safe. Sherlock is safe. That is what keeps me going._

This is a brave plan, a hero's plan. But not a clever one. Without Sherlock I'm doomed to failure. It might not be now, not on this ugly broken landscape, but soon. I got away from the one person that could help me, to keep him safe. A selfish part of me, the one desperate to survive, regrets it now.

I hide behind a big oil canister and a tractor on a deserted farm area, kneeling on the muddy ground by the metal barn. The whole place is desolate, abandoned to decay. No innocent bystanders to take into consideration. _Not even me._ Lost my innocence a long time ago.

I try to level my breathing as I press myself against the barn's outside wall. I keep a lookout over my shoulder, knowing full well the drizzle has softened the grounds and made my footsteps easy to follow.

That's when he approaches, Chandler, on foot, breathless and tightly grabbing his gun.

'John Watson!' he calls out, tauntingly.

 _Not answering, mate!_

'Captain Watson!' he tries for another, more familiar, way to address me. 'I must say, you gave me a good time, chasing you! None of the others has put up this much fight!'

I press my eyes closed. He's been after other members of my former military team, that got deployed abroad as well. It was just one mission, a messy mission, and I wanted no more of that.

Far away, some small helicopter circles the landscape, giving happy, oblivious tourists a view of the grounds. It always looks neater and cleaner from above. You cannot see what is really going on below, just a neat patchwork quilt of crops and houses, speckled with moving vehicles and stationary trees.

Well, I'm not one to shy away from danger. The man with the gun has called me by name. It'd be impolite not to answer.

I rise slowly from my hiding place. Haggard, dirty, unarmed.

Chandler spins on himself to a halt, gun pointing my way.

'Watson', he welcomes, simply. A cruel smile emerging.

'Chandler... Heard of your new job at the Yard, congratulations', I say, hands in the air. 'Must warn you, though, that they know who you are by now. I'm sorry that should cost you your job. Again.'

The man becomes visibly bitter and irate, thus buying me some time. 'You cost me my job the last time.'

I shrug. 'Wasn't just me, you know...'

'I had a good operation there.'

'Not that good. We found out.'

'You should have taken the bribe I offered.'

'Some thought about it. I didn't let them.'

'No need to protect them anymore, Watson. I got to them already.' My stomach drops and I force myself not to think about it. The names, the faces, the people. I keep losing men in the battle. It's still a battle. Sometimes I think I never left the battlefield.

'Who was the man in the alley?' I question, curious despite the circumstances.

'He was once an attorney general's assistant. He helped to prosecute on the case against me, after you were gone. Worse than that, he saw the pattern. He was going to warn you I was after you. Maybe he even did. He wrote you a letter from the hotel. Got my hands on it too. Gibberish all over.'

'Not gibberish. Code.' I correct.

'I let the letter get to you, but on my own envelope, rigged to dope you. After that you weren't so sharp anymore.'

I look away for a second.

'You didn't know where the meeting was, you didn't decipher it. Instead, you followed me to the alley.'

'Not you, I followed him. Easier to follow a man of laws than a detective's ex-soldier sidekick.'

He makes a tiny mistake, by reminding me of Sherlock. It gives me strengths to remember Sherlock.

'You should know, no such thing as an ex-soldier. It's who I am.' I say, in a stronger voice.

'So?' he doesn't get it.

'Soldiers don't give up.'

'There's no one to rescue you, Watson.'

'Yes, there is. We're an army of two.' I smirk, confidently. 'Well, sometimes there's more of us. Even soldiers need some help sometimes.'

Chandler gets jittery, and rechecks the aim of his gun on me. As he's about to shoot, the whole morning drizzle changes with a burst of activity. Scotland Yard closes in from the train line, guns in hands and protective gear (a bit of an overkill if you ask me), the Secret Services forces storm down descending by ropes from the returned helicopter that turns out not being that small after all and now shines a bright flood light on us (definitely an overkill on their side). No less than Sherlock Holmes stands at the helicopter's side opening, dangerous dark expression as he commands the scene, dark curls trashed about by the whiplashes from the paddles above him.

 _He'll never convince me he's not enjoying this._ Bossing around both the Scotland Yard and the Secret Services. Guess Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes joined forces in the end, trusting me. Sherlock wouldn't let it happen any other way.

Chandler's gun drops slowly. The man was once an American police captain, he knows when the odds are all against him. He still looks viciously at me and shouts, as the helicopter lands nearby, the wind propelled by its paddles hitting us with moderate force.

'I will get you, Watson! I will get you!'

From not far away, Sherlock jumps from the military helicopter to the ground, ankles together like some happy kid, coat flapping about, and raises his own gun. 'I won't let you', he drawls, as if bored. 'John', he asks me in the same tone, 'can we get him away?'

I send a dark look Chandler's way. What I want to do to him would be frowned upon by all the representatives of the law around us, so I grudgingly let go of such opportunity and nod to Sherlock. Immediately the different forces act as one to take hold of the dangerous man and disarm him. He doesn't fight back.

'Knew you'd find me, Sherlock', I say to my friend, feeling a bit awkward now. 'What took you so long?' I add, with a timely squint.

Sherlock chuckles, amused, and I feel a heavy weight lift from my heart. _I'd have thought he'd be mad at me._

'Had some people to command', he says, lightly. 'I see why you enjoyed it.'

I giggle. 'I was just an army doctor, Sherlock.'

'Just drop it, John. You don't have to tell me everything now, but I expect full disclosure later, at Baker Street.'

I sigh. Sounds marvellous, really. Taking a hand to rub my forehead I sense Sherlock's change of attitude at once. My friend walks decisively to me and removes his long wool coat by my side. Before I can protest he's enveloping me in the posh garment over my torn, dirtied shirt.

'Sherlock, I'm getting mud all over your coat!'

'That's alright, you can take it to the cleaners tomorrow', he says, generously.

'Like hell I will!' I fight back. He hums, as if he enjoyed my protest, as a sign of familiarity.

'Sleeping all day tomorrow?' he suggests, enquiring about my plans.

'Making sure Greg is alright, for one', I answer more soberly. 'We got driven off the road.' I explain shortly.

Sherlock's expression darkens, but he still acts neglectful as he assures: 'I wish him a speedy recovery. After all, I'm not dealing with any other officer of the law for statements. Lestrade knows my methods, he's the one to write the reports.'

'He'll love us for that', I comment. 'And his car we've crashed too.'

'That's okay, John. There's a small reward for catching Chandler. Turns out he was already wanted for some crimes in America, and you know how they love their rewards for catching criminals.'

I blink. _I'll use my part of that reward towards Greg's new car._

'You can have it all', Sherlock offers, reading my mind.

'Are we bounty hunters now?' I ask, a bit confused.

'Maybe so, John', Sherlock shrugs. 'We're so many things at once already.'

 _We're family_ , I think, as I let my good friend lead me away. I feel exhausted and keep tripping over my own feet, Sherlock is the one keeping me in the right path.

 _ **.**_

I owe a debt of gratitude to all my friends that is too deep and too strong to ever be repaid.

As I stand by Greg's bedside at the hospital – he's just resting, he's been thoroughly assessed; slight concussion, some bruises, nothing too lasting nor too damaging – I greet the uncomfortable visitors chair as the most homely place for me to be, right now. I lower my head, exhausted, and close my eyes for a couple of seconds, allowing the familiar beeping of machines nearby, the carts rolling down the corridor and the nurses' buzzers to ground me.

'You look like crap, John.'

I jolt awake with Greg's words. I look up and verify the detective inspector is fully awake now. _I should be the one telling him that._

I get up, sternly, and start checking all the stats on display in the machines. For good measure I also take his wrist in my hand and start counting the heartbeats. He removes his wrist forcibly, frowning on me.

'I'm alright, the machines already said I'm alright, even the doctor said I was going to be just fine, John.'

'What doctor?' I ask, confused, looking around at last.

'You fell asleep. Didn't want to wake the Sleeping Beauty; you looked like you needed some rest', he stings me.

Suddenly I recognised Sherlock at the end of the hospital's private room, leaning upright against the chest of drawers where the flowers and cards pile up.

'Sherlock was the one', Greg continues, 'who insisted I woke you up. Said you'd rather see me awake before you both go home.'

I frown, foggy brain in permanent rewind, numb to the present time.

'Not going anywhere anytime soon', I guarantee, as the only thing I know for sure right now.

Greg and Sherlock share some secret understanding, glancing at each other.

'You feel guilty, John', Sherlock deduces.

'Yeah... Saw that in a wrinkle on my face too?' I fight back, feeling too exposed.

'On your hands, actually', he corrects, without any glory. I look down on my hands and unclench them at once.

I look at the both of them, pairing up with secrets from me. Angered and full of too raw emotions, I get up to leave.

Don't quite make it, as the whole room spins around me at dizzying speed. I grab onto the chair's side arm and struggle to sit down again. Sherlock is already by my side, I can see him holding me up, but I can't feel it, my mind is miles away, swaying under a desert storm only I can feel.

'He's crashing!' I hear from afar.

'John!' I hear Sherlock's sharp voice, grounding me momentarily.

I grunt back some half-conjured thought.

'Easy, John!' Greg asks me.

'Was I drugged again?' I mutter angrily, accusingly.

'No', Sherlock tells me. _And the "he should know" is implied._ 'It's just your body reaching its limits. Come on, we're getting you home or you can spend the night admitted to this very hospital.'

I glance murderously at Sherlock and Greg. _I'm a soldier, you don't tell me what to do!_

'Am fine', I assure him.

'Like I never heard that lie before', Greg tells me, pointedly. Judging by his clever comebacks, my friend is not overly tainted by the recent events that landed him in the hospital. 'Sherlock, take him home, make sure he rests', he asks, fatherly.

I look from one to the other, accusingly, in a childish protest I already know will get me nowhere.

 _ **.**_

221B feels exactly the same as when we left, impervious to the recent events or the "fugitive of the law" label to one of its tenants. Come to think of it, there's nothing in Mrs Hudson's tenancy agreement that mentions harbouring outlaws escaped from justice. Either it was implied in the spirit of the document or our incredible landlady was never really too bothered by whom Sherlock dragged with him to have living under her roof.

In fact, Mrs Hudson has baked us a especially big welcome back batch of blueberry scones. It almost seemed that she had kept herself occupied by baking scones while we were gone. Keeping busy is to her an antidote for her worry over "her boys".

This time Sherlock gets to them before anyone else can have the best ones. _Well, I may have given him a headstart by insisting on making tea._

I frown upon my sugar-hypered friend and take the rest of the looted batch to the living room, where Greg Lestrade is easing a sore body onto my armchair.

'Two sugars, no milk?' I ask Greg how he takes his tea. He nods, but remarks:

'No rush, John! ...John?' he calls me out as I'm already putting the kettle on. 'There's no rush, mate!'

I try to put on a brave smile. 'Well, it's the least I can do, I owe you guys so much. For saving my life and clearing my name, for sheltering me despite putting your livelihoods in danger...'

Sherlock refuses at once, mouth splattering full of crumbs: 'No, I have a comfortable nest egg, John.'

He must do, considering the tailored suits he always wears. 'It'd drive you mental, losing your beloved cases, Sherlock.'

'Well, I had a better one to focus on', he comments, offhandedly.

'What was that?' I don't get it.

It's Greg who particularizes:

'John, Sherlock pulled all the stops for you. He fired all these deductions at high speed – and, god, the man can speak faster than anyone else I know – including unprecedented deductions he never used on a case before. He has surpassed even his own previous prowess, and he's done it for you. Only you could make him so... desperately brilliant.'

'I overworked my best mate', I translate in a self-deprecating tone.

'Yeah, and he has loved it', Greg comments. Sherlock smirks, but won't correct the statement. 'Don't get me wrong', Greg continues. 'He would never have wanted you to be the one he needed to save. But I don't think we'd ever see Sherlock this engaged with any other client.'

I ponder Greg's words quietly. Can it be that I haven't been hurting my best friend with our association as much as I thought? That, in a way, Sherlock might have... _enjoyed the case?_

'My case, Greg, as you call it, was a fairly trite one, I'm afraid. An old criminal seeking revenge.'

Greg shakes his head. 'That's not what the Yard thought. All ducks in a neat row and the riffle in your hands at the county fair – and then there's you. Sherlock knows you would never do it, and you didn't even have to prove it. Occam's razor all wrong; the easiest solution wasn't the correct one, life can be _that_ complicated. You had him hooked from the start, John.'

'I pushed Sherlock away.'

'You might have tried to push him away, but you didn't succeed. He traced your whereabouts with his near magical abilities and went there to save you with all the king's horses and all the king's men.'

'If the general public gets wind that Sherlock Holmes helped a fugitive–'

'They'll think its natural.' Lestrade shrugs. 'Everyone knows you two are best mates. And Sherlock has helped criminals before. Sherlock has never been picky. You were the one bringing up a morality clause to Baker Street's clients. Sherlock would take just about anyone with a neat puzzle.'

I want to contradict Greg, but he's got me pegged. At Baker Street we've turned down work from gangsters, serial killers, war lords, dictators and other undeserving people. We turned down vast amounts in honoraries, based on an impromptu deontology code to our made-up profession.

'That's very noble, John.'

I shake my head. 'Sherlock might have bent that rule for me', I notice. 'He couldn't have been 100% certain I was innocent. Nor could I, in fact. I had no recollection.'

Greg smirks easily. 'He was sure of it, though. And he was right too. He knows you too well... Right, Sherlock?'

The consulting detective that has been pretending to pay more attention to my purloined laptop at the wooden table, than the ongoing conversation, looks up from the screen and instead tells us:

'John, I've got here the most fascinating case, involving an ambassador, a pink rubber duck, and most certainly my brother.'

I groan. 'Sherlock, we're not taking a case just to mess with your brother!'

'We most certainly are. You owe me one', he says ruthlessly. I give in with a sigh; _he knew I will._

I half-expect Sherlock to blackmail me into other cases just then and there, or force me to lower my morality clause on the cases and clients' standards, but he doesn't at all. I get this feeling that Sherlock wants to give me a way to repay him at once, that he does not care for the upper hand when it comes to me.

I smile softly, as Greg already leans in, curious, enquiring about the significance of the rubber duck. Sherlock implies it's not the rubber duck, but obviously its colour. I keep my smile, absent-minded, drawing in strengths from my surroundings.

This is my team, my family, and here at Baker Street I feel at home; I couldn't wish to be anywhere else in the world.

 _ **.**_


	42. Chapter 42

_A/N: Again with a one-liner self-prompt; "you get kidnapped too often, John". The rest is made-up on the spot. It might have gone a bit astray, thus proving that one single prompt can be the mother of very many plots. But then again, this is a collection where the same expression gets repeated over and over again, I shouldn't be surprised. Two parts for this one, here's the first. -csf_

 _ **1 of 2**_

* * *

 _ **.**_ _ **this maniac Monday .**_

"You get kidnapped too often, John."

 _Lord help me, he's right._

As I sit on a dirty chair, hands tied behind my back, only a flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling providing an island of light over me, I acknowledge the accuracy of my best friend's imaginary voice, that keeps me company in my predicament.

"Of course, I'm on my way to you already, John."

Don't really know if this last observation wasn't too tainted by wishful thinking, though.

 _Don't take too long._

"You overwork me, John."

 _You like it like that._

I smirk to an empty room.

"Can you start making your way out by yourself?" My friend's voice is lazy now.

 _Been trying nothing else._

"Try harder, John."

 _'Shut up!'_ I shout in the cold room. For the first time answering out loud. But there's no-one listening. Perhaps I'm going mental already, speaking with invisible people.

It's all Sherlock's fault. _He's taking his sweet time getting here._

And the kidnappers haven't paid me the attention I deserve. They roughened me and then left me here for an excess of six hours (my guess, I can't have a look at my wristwatch, on account of having my wrists tied behind my back; can't even scratch the tip of my nose, and I really wanted to).

What sort of kidnappers have never seen the films, heard the radio dramas, read the literature? They were supposed to ask me questions, to take a picture of me as a proof of life (and temporary ownership), say something menacing and rude about my ransom.

Instead I've been left here as an afterthought.

Looks like I'm plan B. Plan A is probably asking very politely if they can have what they want.

Maybe they've already got what they wanted, and completely forgot about me. That would be embarrassing...

 _ **.**_

The door flies off its hinges – quite literally, I'm afraid – as Sherlock Holmes barges in the little room where I've been kept prisoner for the last ten hours. I look up at him in shock, then groan in shame as I see he's not even armed.

 _It was that easy, huh?_

Sherlock reads my insightfulness at once. 'John, I...' he starts, guiltily.

'Forgot about me then?' I ask conversationally, to disguise my humiliation.

'Actually, no. I just – just didn't realise you weren't there, John. Not immediately. The thought did occur when you took forever to bring me my customary evening cup of tea. But I thought... Never mind what I thought. Eventually Mrs Hudson enquired about you being gone so long and – I'm here now, John.'

'And the bad guys?'

'Caught them', he says proudly. Then loses his smile and looks away. 'Hours ago', he adds through gritted teeth.

'Good job', I say nonetheless.

He tilts his head slightly. 'Does that mean you're not angry with me?'

I sigh. 'Just get me out of here', I evade an answer, too sore to talk it through just yet.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock unties me without further delay. I hiss and rub my chaffed wrists, with numbed fingers, hoping to restore the blood circulation. By my side, Sherlock is watching me very closely, almost as closely as a bomb waiting to go off. Or maybe not that at all. He's watching my every move, trait, _hint_ , as if I was the most precious thing in the world. That is, if you leave precious things behind, like an umbrella on a bus.

He helps me up, following my sluggish, slow movements, ready to hamper me if my knees should buckle. I'm really sore all over, only the feeling of pins and needles cutting in on the general painful unresponsiveness I'm experiencing.

'The paramedics are waiting outside, John. Can you reach them? Should I call them over?'

I frown, taken by surprise. 'Were you expecting to find me hurt?'

He shakes his head. 'Those kidnappers specialised in kids, they were hardly proficient.'

 _They had guns and they knocked me out, Sherlock. They were proficient enough from my point of view._

'Then the ambulance wasn't needed', I point out logically, instead.

He stands straighter, harsh. 'Wasn't going to take any chances with you, John.'

'That would actually be quite endearing if you had arrived promptly.'

He gulps dry, and doesn't try to defend himself.

'Glad you didn't tag along the paramedics.'

'Knew you'd want to come out on your own two feet, John. You have a substantial amount of pride.'

I stop short, curling on myself. 'Not today, no, I think I've used it all up today.' I sigh and rub my face, defeated. 'Can't walk yet. Too painful. Cramps.'

'Oh, I see', Sherlock tells me. He sounds worried, for once allowing his voice to betrayal his hidden feelings.

I grab the chair to which I've been bound to and sit back down. 'You're not in a hurry, are you?' I ask, hopeful that Sherlock can wait for me.

He takes on his best approach to a patient attitude, uniting his hands behind his back, and looking on.

That just aggravates me. Again I try to get up and walk away from the dingy warehouse. This time, my knees actually buckle with my weight.

Sherlock catches me before I hit the ground, as if he had predicted the situation beforehand and was ready to jump in on cue. Feeling much more forgiving towards my neglectful friend, I grab onto his shirt and jacket with some degree of despair as I slowly put the weight back on my unsupportive legs.

I'm about to ask for help when Sherlock saves me the trouble and gently crosses my arm behind his neck. From that position he can help support my weight and guide me out of my nightmare site of the last ten plus hours.

'Ready, John?' he whispers between us.

I nod, putting on a brave face.

Together we leave united as a team, determined to work on fixing the cracks between us.

 _ **. late hours on a tired Tuesday .**_

Sherlock's incredible mind is hardly ever at rest. Since yesterday, he's solved another three cases without even leaving the flat. The first two he offered the Yard without wanting his name mentioned in any part of the process. The last one, he was hoping to dissipate some pent-up energy on it by taking the lead into its daring conclusion.

We tossed me my jacket and grabbed his coat. Before I could ask where we were heading Sherlock had hailed a cab and gave the address to the driver.

I sit back against the upholstered seat and rally myself mentally to chase some criminals. Before I can ask Sherlock about the case, he hands me his phone with Lestrade's email opened and mutes himself with sharp eyes half-lidded and unites his thin fingertips as a steeple against his lips. I look down and read for myself. The case is a robbery turned sour. Valuables to be rescued, thieves to be caught. There's absolutely no doubt as to the authorship of the robbery, in fact, the idiots signed a note they left behind, feeling invincible. Then they took off with a quarter of a million pounds in assorted jewellery. Sherlock just has to track them down before the jewellery gets smuggled out of the country.

I look over at my consulting detective friend. He's sure to know the mysterious whereabouts of these men. Rapidly I checked Sherlock's phone for a reply to Lestrade's email. Yes, Sherlock has told the detective inspector where we're heading, and to bring backup.

Perhaps he's still a bit guilty over the fact that yesterday I was so cramped up and wants to make it easier on me. _He'll never admit it, though._

We stop by a darkened cul-de-sac, the sort that houses nice families with a couple of kids, a couple of cars and a dog, that organises neighbourhood watches and puts up posters stating so, and that colour coordinates flower beds with the living room's curtains. I certainly didn't expect jewellery robbers to come hide peacefully in such a quiet place.

If it weren't for the dark stormy clouds gathering above us, it'd be the epitome of an idyllic suburban location.

Sherlock and I exit the cab (well, Sherlock does, I'm left to pay the faire as usual), as subtle movements wave the local bedroom curtains. I come out into the night knowing full well we are the aim of the neighbours curiosity.

'Sherlock, we're not very inconspicuous right now.'

'Relax, John. That's the plan.'

I glance at him. He's way too jolly on the inside for there to be an actual plan. I'm putting my money on improvisation.

'There!' Sherlock points at a front door that opens suddenly, not far from us. From the nice suburban detached house a tall man runs off at high speed, clutching on to a parcel folded in newspaper sheets.

I roll my eyes. Nothing like abusing old clichés, culminating in a good old chase to get Sherlock in good spirits!

We rush after the criminal in the badly lit cul-de-sac as the first stormy thunders resound above us. The lightening follows shortly, like photographic flashes that immortalise our pursuit.

'Hurry, John, we're losing him!'

The thief has got the upper hand in familiar territory and jumps of yet another fence with ease.

The disconcerted noise that follows his jump is an immediate tell of some miscalculation. We got our lucky break. Sherlock goes around the fence, I jump it, albeit carefully. The robber is desperately holding on to his ankle. Even in the dim light I suspect a compound fracture of the bone.

Sherlock arrives in time to grab the jewellery parcel, I've already checked the robber for concealed weapons. Somewhere in the distance the sirens of police cars are approaching.

'Another successful case, John!' Sherlock declares triumphantly, walking away. After all, it's not like the robber can run off. And that is exactly the reason why I stay behind, tending to the man's serious fracture.

As Sherlock disappears in the distance, presumably to meet Lestrade, a rumbling thunder opens the flood gates above and the rain starts pouring down on us, heavily.

 _Just my luck._ Secretly hoping Sherlock borrows an umbrella from Lestrade, I cut the fabric of the patient's trousers, exposing the wound. Realignment necessary, disinfection and local anaesthesia, some stiches, and two to three months of recovery time.

I look over my shoulder as Greg Lestrade comes over.

'Ambulance?' the DI asks tiredly. I nod. He complains, getting his phone out and angling his head so the device won't get waterlogged with all the heavy rain: 'Should I just start assuming ambulances will be required whenever you two are on the case?'

I blink. _What? No! Wasn't even us!_

'Sherlock was–' I start.

'Yeah, that won't help much', Greg interrupts. 'He took off on a cab already.'

I frown and shut up.

I look at my phone, no message from Sherlock. Well, it's a privilege to be a part of his work, no doubt. But this is Sherlock being Sherlock. He's always been a bit bad at following the social cues. And he might be getting worse by the day.

 _I'm sensing a pattern here._

 _I'm constantly being left behind._

 _ **. first hours on a wacky Wednesday.**_

Sherlock never came back for me. Eventually the paramedics took over and I was freed from Lestrade's needy statements, so I went back to Baker Street. But only after Greg called in for a cab. They don't just magically conjure themselves to me.

221B was lovely and cosy by the time I got up there. Sherlock was still up and about, acting oblivious to the clock's insistence that it's the first hours of the next morning already.

'Oh, John, there you are! Been calling you for hours!'

I frown. _What? Did he not notice I stayed behind?_

'What is it, Sherlock?' I ask, peeling off my drenched jacket.

'Asked you for a cup of tea hours ago!' _How rude of me. How do I dare?_ 'Would you mind?' he asks just then, with an innocent undertone that always gets to me. _Fine._

 _If I stop making my mad friend his tea, one day he'll manage to poison himself with the tea bags._

I sigh and get on with it.

 _ **. some hours later, the same Wednesday .**_

I wake up to a cold cuppa and a coarse afghan blanket atop of me. I look around, feeling a bit sleepy still, trying to make sense of the somewhat raised voices from the kitchen.

'Sherlock, I'm not asking you to change your routines, or whatever it is. All I ask you is not to do something like that again. John won't bring it up, but it doesn't mean it won't hurt him when you can't appreciate what he does. And honestly he deserves better from you.'

'I'm appreciative of John's little contributions', I hear Sherlock state, stiffly. _He's not really aware of how menial that sounds._

'Yeah, but you make him do all the shopping, the errands, the bookkeeping, the washing up...'

'Mrs Hudson does the washing up.'

'For a genius, you keep missing the point, mate!' Greg says, exasperated now. 'He takes care of you, Sherlock, in lots of ways. And you go round acting like a petulant teenager while John gets exhausted and underappreciated.'

Sherlock is about to protest with a glorious eye roll when they notice me coming up to the kitchen.

'John, you're awake', Sherlock says, non-genius-like. He looks fleetingly guilty.

'Good deduction, mate!' I say, humouredly.

Greg steps in at once: 'John, you should get some rest, you looked exhausted earlier.'

I shrug neglectfully, only to wince at the sudden stab of pain in my bummed shoulder. _Yeah, stormy weather never fails to inflame the old war wound._

'Am fine', I dismiss their concern at once.

Greg glances at Sherlock and decides to lead the conversation: 'You did a great job with the robber's broken bone, John. You even helped the paramedics realign the fracture.' And he looks up to Sherlock, making sure our friend heard him. 'You should have seen it, Sherlock. John is a hell of a doctor.'

Sherlock hums in agreement, absent-minded. Greg refuses to meet my gaze, as if embarrassed by Sherlock's coldness.

'Is fine', I say with a tired yawn. _I really mean it. Greg doesn't get it, that's all._

Frustrated, Greg makes one last comeback: 'Sherlock, you're minimising it, you don't see the importance of John's contribution.'

Sherlock shrugs. 'Why should I compliment John when he did exactly what I expected of him?'

Greg opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, then rallies back: 'Are you backhandedly complimenting yourself for being so clever at reading people?'

Sherlock groans loudly. 'Am I really supposed to be complimenting John for being ordinary?'

 _Tea! I'm making tea. They can settle their grievances over tea._

Greg insists, sly: '"Ordinary" for you is not ordinary at all for other people.' Sherlock immediately agrees, but still doesn't follow. Greg accuses him: 'You keep taking John for granted.'

'No, I really don't', 221B's detective answers, dignified.

'You underestimate John's loyalty, Sherlock', Greg tells him, cross. 'He is there for you, in a way you weren't there for him, Sherlock. You need to apologise.'

I sigh and put an end to all the nonsense. Baker Street's family has quarreled enough already. 'Greg, stop it. You mean well, but–'

That just inflames our friendly neighbourhood detective inspector. 'You're defending him now? What are you, John? A masochist?'

I rub my shoulder some more. 'Sherlock speaks a different _language_ than us, that's all, Greg. And at that he's incredibly loyal and caring.'

'Sherlock? _This_ Sherlock?' Greg abuses the sarcasm, pointing and all.

I extend a tea cup each as a peace offering. 'Yes, this Sherlock. Let's see. What was Sherlock doing when you came over?'

'Playing some tricky concerto on the violin.'

I nod. 'Always helps me sleep better. Keeps the nightmares at bay.'

'Nightmares?' he repeats, confused.

'Well, the storm doesn't help, it's a bit like the sound of detonations on the battlefield in a way.' I look down, feeling embarrassed.

'Didn't know that, mate.'

'It helps to keep the shoulder warm too. The old war wound', I remind him with a tight smile. 'Sherlock knows that. He got me a blanket draped over my left shoulder. He never forgets, when I fall asleep on my armchair like tonight.'

'That's very thoughtful, actually.' Greg is deflating quickly.

'Keep telling you that. Sherlock's a great best friend. I hate it when people keep giving him these silly ideas that he hasn't got good social skills. He does, he just goes about it in his own, endearing way. A very honest way, I might add. Different languages. I can read Sherlock. You should learn too.'

'Then... Him, leaving you behind, John...'

I exchange a look with my best friend. 'Good thing about genius is that they don't make the same mistake often.'

'And he knows he did wrong', Greg squints, unsure.

'Oh, yeah. And that he owes me big time', I say, with no sting to my words.

'So I've been wasting my time', the inspector translates.

I shake my head. 'Not at all. I believe Sherlock solved a few more cases since. You might want to stick around to hear of them.'

Sherlock lets on a small smile as a little twitch of lips. Greg protests: 'Hang on, if he had solved more cases, he'd be as big as the room – well, bigger than some bigger room, this kitchen is not that big – praising himself for his achievements and implying we're all dumb.'

Sherlock intercedes: 'Not dumb, idiots.' There's a different according to our friend.

'There!' Greg points out, accusingly. 'He's starting again!'

I smile confidently. 'Not tonight.' I rub my shoulder. 'He's not dashing off tonight, he's playing the violin. If that is not generous of an hyperactive genius, then what is?'

Greg frowns. 'He's really caring for you, John? Making it up to you?'

I nod to both.

'Well, of you're sure...' the DI reluctantly lets go. He looks over at the detective. 'Keep it up, Sherlock; whatever you're doing.' And to me he adds: 'Don't let him get away with so much, John.'

I smirk. Greg just can't help his well-intentioned fatherly speeches.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	43. Chapter 43

_A/N: Here's the second and last portion. -csf_

 _ **2 of 2**_

* * *

 _ **. a thundering Thursday.**_

Thursday sneaks up on me with all the responsibilities of the adult's world. I'm off to a medical conference and Sherlock will be on his own at Baker Street for these next two days. Not that the man prone to boredom fits cannot find himself something to do. In fact, if yesterday is an example, he can cause plenty of mayhem around the flat.

Sherlock has spent the majority of Wednesday sulking around 221B, too engaged in his scientific experiments to answer my attempts at conversation.

Wednesday morning I found my friend testing the tensile strength of human bones given different periods of time elapsed from burial. He has assured me he hasn't gone grave robbing again. All those bones came from people who donated their bodies for Science's advancement. Apparently, Sherlock has been periodically burying tibias and femurs in some backyard, for the last ten years, if I'm to trust his justification. Whether this is an ongoing experiment of ten years, or of it was an old habit of my mad friend to bury some odd bones in the ground, like a dog on a scientific crusade, because they'd might come in handy, I can't really tell.

I may have left the living room at the first sickening sounds of bone cracking under the tension of hanging masses of weight, balanced between the backs of the two desk chairs.

Honestly, sometimes Sherlock enjoys his experiments too much...

In the afternoon there was a more hands-on practical activity. I came back from work to a very chilled 221B. In fact, not only the thermostat was turned off, but all the windows were open creating a huge draft inside the flat. Music sheets scattered all over the floor and the curtains fluttering inwards creating bustling movement.

'Sherlock?' I question if he's even home as I'm taking off my gloves. On second thought, I decide to keep the gloves, and the jacket, on. My mad friend doesn't answer so I decide he's gone off, leaving me to sort the flat again. I'm about to close the living room's windows when he shouts at me:

'Leave them!' The shout came from the long sofa, where the prostrated form of the detective is laying in artistic disarray.

'What happened, Sherlock, are you alright?'

He glances at me like a petulant child, and wraps his dressing gown more carefully around his clothes. For good measure he tries to straighten its creases with the palm of his hand.

'Can you still smell burnt?' he asks lazily.

'No', I answer, confused.

'Good', he states with a smile. 'Nothing to worry about, just Science.' Sherlock gets up and walks off the living room before I can make sense of his words.

I shiver in cold.

By night time the flat was liveable again, and the fireplace had warm, crackling fire steadily energising the living room.

I looked on longingly at the homely warmth that spread from the mantel as I came downstairs for a long bath. I figured that my sore shoulder could do with a lazy soak on the tub. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, so presumably he was in his room. _And that was my mistake, right there, not sensing something was off._ I just went right in to the bathroom, turned on the tap over the bathtub, shed my clothes quickly and grabbed a towel, bringing it closer to the bathtub. That's when I saw it. The liquid – if we can call it that – coming off the tap was like pink slush, with what appeared to be glitter.

I was about to shower in some unhealthy strawberry milkshake on steroids. I sighed, what else was I to do? Rubbing my face I realised Sherlock had got his hands on the hot water heater deposit, located somewhere in the house. _Why?_ I'm sure the genius would come up with a perfectly logical – and farcical – explanation. He'd be proud to tell me, really. _And that's why I don't really ask, not on the odd ones at least, not anymore._

When Sherlock is bored, weird things happen at Baker Street. _It's a rule of life as I know it._

Well, that was yesterday. I would love to stick around and experiment Sherlock's creativity first hand, but today there's a medical convention I need to attend. I grab my overnight bag, check for my train tickets, grab an apple on the go and alert Sherlock once again I'm not around today. There's no one to call the fire department, to give first aid or to keep Sherlock from self-poisoning.

As I go down the stairs to exit the flat, I still catch a glimpse of the living room's floor, covered in feathers. Right, testing a range of bullets' caliber to examine the resulting gunpowder burns around the entry holes on pillows, again. _That's a repeated one, Sherlock!_

Honest, sometimes taking care of Sherlock is more demanding than caring for a toddler on a sugary diet.

 _ **.**_

A medical convention is a great way to keep up to date with the latest pharmaceutical discoveries and treatments from the specialists in different fields of medicine. It's an exciting array of knowledge for a medical man.

It's also a bit boring, for a doctor sharing an everyday dangerous life with the world's only consulting detective.

As I'm exiting a formal lecture for a quick break, I stop short in what I'm saying to Chandler, an old mate from the army medical training. My train of thought gets irretrievably lost as I spot the familiar silhouette of Sherlock Holmes across the room.

I almost groan out loud. He's worst than a jealous spouse; _he just had to follow me here, hadn't he?_

'Look, John, a drink later? At six? I'll find you', Chandler tries to fix. I nod in agreement, absentmindedly.

I dismiss Chandler with some quick words and dash to where I last saw Sherlock, casually leaning against a wall. I navigate through a sea of professionals, but as I reach the end wall, Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. _Did I imagine him? Am I being haunted by my flatmate?_

Someone taps me on the shoulder and I almost jump off my skin.

'Sherlock! What on earth are you doing here?'

He frowns. Clearly not the welcome he was hoping for.

I frown too. Here he is, showing up like a puppy-eyed first-class stalker, looking for company and approval. How did he even pass the main gate? I sigh. _I always give in when he's puppy-eyed like that anyway._

'It was very considerate of you, John, not to force me to share a train ride with you to get here. It allowed for better reasoning without all the distractions you try to impose on me, every time you chatter on.'

'Welcome', I state sarcastically, with an eye roll. 'Why would you even want to come, Sherlock? This is for doctors!'

'I know a lot about human anatomy, John.'

'Not while those humans are alive, you don't.'

'True. I'm usually called on afterwards', he smirks.

'Sherlock...' I warn him I'm running out of patience.

'I wanted to be here with you', he states, very serious.

I'm taken aback by that. 'Oh, okay then', I mutter.

'Thanks, John. Doctors make some of the best serial killers. Their attraction towards death is often redirected to the healing of the human body, but in some exceptional cases we get lucky and they do both – heal and kill.'

'Are you serious?'

'Not you, John, I'd never mean you, stop being so paranoid. And don't worry, it's alright, you are still fascinating in your own way.'

He keeps messing with me.

Break time is running out and we need to go back into the conference room. Sherlock notices this and hurries to tell me: 'There is a murderer in this very room, John.' My blood rushes through my veins as I attempt to keep it from showing to the medical crowd around us. 'Present company excluded', Sherlock adds timely.

'Who is he?'

Sherlock gulps dry. 'Haven't got that far yet, John. I wasn't about to leave you to the mercy of an unknown killer, was I?'

I sigh. 'Look, Sherlock, this sounds a whole more fun than a discourse on ganglion cysts, and all, but I really must go. Why don't you go back to the hotel and book yourself a room?'

He presses his lips thin, upset. 'That was very inconsiderate of you, John. You could have saved me the trouble and booked us a double room.'

'I didn't know you were coming!' _Am I really defending myself?_ I rub my nose.

'Pft! You were hoping for nothing less', Sherlock deduces me, overconfident, as he walks away.

I bite down a smile. Sherlock is entirely mad, I'm sure, but he made this lengthy conference day more bearable just by being here.

 _ **.**_

At the hotel's reception they tell me they managed, with considerable effort and willingness, to swap my room for a double room, to accommodate my–

' _Flatmate_ ', I fill in the gap. The concierge just looks on blankly at me. Guess he never heard that one before. I'd complain about the double bed, but Sherlock never sleeps anyway, particularly not in foreign places. From experience, the chances of him actually sharing a bed are null. 'And we're not–'

The man lifts a hand and hides a savvy smile. 'Your _flatmate_ has requested flowers and chocolates sent up to the room. It has been take care of.'

I'm speechless. _Sherlock's got to be messing with me right now._

I ignore the pretentious concierge and rush up to the room, the key's tag telling me which one Sherlock has chosen for us. _At least it's not something daft like the bridal suite._

Opening the room's door suddenly I find the detective munching on some chocolate, by the bedroom window. It must be bad, whatever I've supposedly done, if he's munching of his own accord.

'John, welcome', he greets through a stuffed mouth, never stopping his study of the outside.

'Nice view?' I ask, tiredly.

'Yes, only room that faced the entrance so I could see all of the doctors arriving. Almost didn't get it, the place is overbooked as it is.'

I sigh. 'Hence the double room, I guess. Good thing the bridal suit was taken, ugh?'

He frown and turns silently, looking very confused. Then he decides it's only fair game to admonish me with a dark look. _You started it, Sherlock!_

I roll my eyes. He had it coming. 'Chocolates and flowers, really?' I point to the items in question.

'I believe it's customary to give peace offerings when one has not been a good friend, John.' He manages to look contrite and dignified. _Shit_.

My heart sinks at that. 'What, no! You're a great friend, Sherlock. You're my best friend, just the way you are.'

'Lestrade would disagree. He knows me for longer than you and holds no expectations of changing me, he knows I possess certain character flaws that are immutable.'

I giggle. 'Did anyone else ever fall for that speech?' I ask, smiling affectionately.

Sherlock smiles briefly. 'Once. A gangster. She was a real softy on the inside. Apart from the chilling killings, of course.'

'Great, now drop it. I'm not mad at you at all. Stop trying to apologise.'

His gaze turns more youthful, lost, but he nods, none the less. This is almost uncharted territory for a recluse genius that for years has isolated himself from the rest of the world. I need to proceed with caution.

'So now you're here, what will you do to pass the time?'

He shrugs, as if it was inconsequential: 'Find myself a serial killer, John.'

I nod. That will keep him busy, and keep him from destroying the room.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock has left our room, munching on the leftover chocolate and promising to return if there was something interesting for me. And by that he means an ongoing crime, a murder victim, or just a new scientific experiment I'm forced to take part in.

I pace around the room for a couple of minutes, mindlessly, before there are polite knocks on the door.

 _Not more of Sherlock's room service abuse, please!_

Much to my surprise it's Chandler on the hotel corridor. I hastily look at my wristwatch, realising I've stood him up, by being distracted with Sherlock's shenanigans.

'Chandler, so sorry, I–'

Before I can finish apologising, he makes me regret what little apologies I have already started, as he whacks me on the head with the corridor's fire extinguisher.

I lose consciousness as I hit the carpet.

 _ **.**_

I've been suckered into a trap. My wrists are bound to the chair behind my back, and I'm neatly wrapped up in enough bed sheet straps of fabric to look like a Christmas gift; and there's also the very important detail of the rigged bomb at my feet, just out of my reach. Good thing Sherlock has followed me to this nightmare hotel. This medical conference is turning out to be _the least_ boring of all I've been to.

Sherlock will soon come in through that door and save me. Of course he will. He never fails. I mean–

 _Oh._

For the first time I lose some of that eternal hope I have on Sherlock Holmes.

 _He might have forgotten me again._ Left me behind; I wouldn't put it past the stalker genius to return to London amid a case-related epiphany and leaving me here without warning. Sometimes I even suspect my friend holds mental conversations with me (maybe in his mind palace) and forgets I wasn't actually there, listening.

No amount of chocolates and flowers can make it up to me this time if this bomb goes off in...

...two minutes.

"I will come for you, John. I always do."

Guess I've got my own version of a mind palace Sherlock to keep me company, fuelled by despondent anxiety and a possible concussion.

 _Not anymore you don't, Sherlock. You've been taking me for granted. I was too polite to chastise you, that was my fault. I let it all get out of hand. You probably don't really know it bothers me. "Bothered" me._

"Don't be such a drama queen, John! That bomb is not going to go off."

I shake my head to clear it a bit.

 _It's not your fault, Sherlock. I knew and accepted the risks all along. Remember that, will you?_

"Shut up, John."

 _It was a privilege, thank you._

"SHUT up!"

 _Lestrade will be a good helper, if you need a hand in your cases. He really cares about you, Sherlock. His advice, that so often aggravates you, comes from a good place._

"SHUT UP! Why do you keep yapping on?!"

 _'Piss of, Sherlock!'_

I sigh. Can't even have an imaginary pep talk with Sherlock. He keeps imaginarily panicking on me...

...one minute before the end of my world.

The electronic display switches to seconds only and my stomach summersaults. I really want to hope Sherlock will come. But only if there's time left. If not, he's better off elsewhere, as far away from me as he can.

Suddenly the door bursts open with a metal clash and the detective is propelled into the room with impetus. Looks like he forced his way in. Why didn't he pick the lock? Sherlock Holmes can pick just about any lock.

I may get my answer as he scrambles to his feet, locates the bomb and reaches to it, hesitantly, with deeply trembling hands. He couldn't pick the pock with his hands trembling so much. In fact, it's not just his hands. His whole frame is shivering slightly, as if he's as panicked in real life as he was in my mind palace simile reinterpretation.

'Can you disarm it, Sherlock?' I ask the real deal. He looks lost, as he takes in all the wires, cables, buttons, dials and such. Then he closes his eyes shut, disappearing on me into some lost recess of his mind archives. His eyes ghostly chasing shadows under his eyelids.

'Forty seconds, Sherlock. If you can't do this then you need to get the _hell_ put of here! Sound the fire alarm, get as many guests out of the building as you can.'

Sherlock holds up an imperious hand to silence me and closes his eyes tighter. Gambling with his own life and dozens of others.

Time stretches tensely by.

I find myself shutting my eyes tight too.

...twenty seconds, I count inwardly.

Then, finally–

 _'Oh!'_ And just like that Sherlock Holmes leans in towards the bomb and disconnects two carefully selected wires. The displayed time monitor freezes, and then powers down completely.

Sherlock has learnt a lot about bomb disposal since that time under the parliament.

'You did it', I say, short of breath and intonation.

'Yeah', he replies, much the same. _State of shock for the both of us, I think._

'You came', I state quietly. He's already untying me from the chair.

'I liked that', Sherlock analyses. 'Not all your medical conferences are tedious after all, John. Good improvement, keep it up!'

'I wasn't sure you'd come at all', I confess, sincerely. _I was almost blown up by a homemade bomb, after all, if there ever was a time to talk..._ I rub my chaffed wrists.

'Just drop it, John. I'm actually quite punctual, it's part of my charm.'

I hiccup a laugh. 'When you aren't a no-show!'

'Well, yeah, there's that. Room for improvement and all...' Sherlock smiles to me, looking relieved. Our companionship remaining unharmed, rebuilt.

'And the bomber doctor?' I ask, with a frown.

'Just caught him in the lobby for the murder of another doctor in the men's toilets. He really couldn't help himself.'

I deepen my frown. 'With a bomb?'

'Oh, no. This bomb was the only one he brought. He used a shoe lace to throttle the other victim. From then on it was easy to get evidence for Scotland Yard. The shoe lace was old, from a shoe kept for a long time on a racking by the glass panel of the killer's front door, where the sun discoloured portions of the string in a very characteristic pattern.'

'But that's not how you identified him.'

'The shoe lace showed signs of wear and tear consistent with an overuse of the corresponding shoes. There was brick content heavy speckles of mud and spots of black mould, thus thinning out the possible geographical location of the killer's house.'

'And you found him here in a crowd of doctors?'

'He was the only one missing both shoe laces from his shoes. The other shoe lace, I've just untied your wrists from it', Sherlock acknowledges with a shoulder shrug. I smile openly.

 _ **. a faultless Friday .**_

Baker Street. It's been a tranquil Friday. Sherlock has forsaken his scientific experiments today for a music filled creativity spree. He's been composing melodies all morning, gently swaying between the frail strings of his violin and some rushed jolted down notes on a piece of paper. Slowly he's been composing a beautifully intricate melody where the different strings of notes seem to be part of a mysterious conversation only its composer can translate. To me, it's a enticing conversation about something special, and treasured, that is brought out into display and cherished.

But then again, I'm no musician, at least not like Sherlock. What would I know of it?

I keep sipping a warm and fragrant tea, relaxing on my armchair, enjoying the warmth of the lit fireplace by my bummed shoulder's side.

My best friend, the consulting detective, is not perfect, but he's always there when it matters the most. I feel my trust in him restored.

Greg Lestrade just doesn't get it.

One day he might.

 _ **.**_


	44. Chapter 44

_A/N: Self-prompt: in the absence of cases, how would Sherlock tackle the boredom, if he tried being more "mundane"?_

 _All in one post for this one. I was just bored. -csf_

* * *

 _ **. Monday .**_

'You look stomped there, Sherlock', I comment, handing my friend a morning cup of tea. He glances at it briefly, without acknowledging it. In fact, he often will only drink it when I'm not looking. _I'm assuming it goes with the whole superhero reasoning machine look._ Yet there's hardly ever a mug littering 221B that hasn't been drunk to its last drop, convincing me he enjoys my offerings.

Sure is better than his burnt tea. _How do you even burn tea leaves?_

'Crosswords', Sherlock explains, drawling the word. 'Boring homemade entertainment for intellectual pursuits, however demeaning it may be that, in the absence of good cases, I need to resort to _this_.' He adds a disgusted expression to the end of his lyrical complaint.

Sherlock hasn't had a good case in a week. Mrs Hudson made him promise to keep the stability of Baker Street intact, Molly made him promise not to eviscerate stolen corpses in the kitchen again, Lestrade told him to enjoy it as a deserved holiday and didn't give him any cold cases because holidays are not for work, and I asked him to lay off the chemistry experiments until all the remnants of thick blue fog dissipated from 221B (it's taking longer than one would think).

Each of us contributing to brew the perfect storm in a bored detective. He's being as well-behaved and stoic as he can.

I smirk. 'Go on, I'll give you a hand...' Crosswords puzzles don't take geniuses to be solved.

'Shakespeare's winter of discontent', he reads.

'Richard the Third.'

'Who's he?'

'It's a play, Sherlock... Next, please.'

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and reads on: 'Latin expression for "time flies".'

I shrug, taking a seat in my armchair, facing my friend.

'Fugit. Tempus fugit. Come on, Sherlock, of course I know Latin, I'm a doctor! And so did you, I bet. Quit testing the quality of my answers! Next, please.'

He shrugs as if it wasn't meant for me to know it was a test.

'Household plant with evergreen leaves.'

I squint. That hardly narrows it down. 'How many letters?'

'Don't know.'

I sigh impatiently. 'How can you not know? It's a crosswords puzzle! Just count the little squares!'

'It's in Portuguese. It's a Portuguese crosswords puzzle I'm doing. I saved you the humiliation of not understanding the clue by translating it.'

'It's in Portuguese', I repeat. I blink on. 'Of course it is, why didn't I think of that?' I shake my head, tiredly. Living with a Mensa-grade genius can be very detrimental for your self-esteem. And patience.

Crosswords are that much more fun in another language, right? What's next, 3D crosswords puzzles, in Portuguese?

Before we can bicker, Mrs Hudson is coming up the stairs to 221B, and by the sound of it, she's not alone.

'Finally, a case!' Sherlock hisses triumphantly through greeted teeth and flings the puzzle book halfway across the room. He also tosses the pen my way (I catch it midair just fine) and immediately scolds his features into a carefully crafted expression of indifference, bordering on boredom.

I roll my eyes as a comment to my friend's act (he's been dying for a case) and get up in a friendly manner to greet Mrs Hudson's introduced client.

'Hello. John Watson, how do you do?' I extend my hand at once.

'Oh', he says like a comment. 'I was under the impression I'd get to meet Sherlock Holmes, not his PA.'

'It's your lucky day, you get both', I say, drily.

He smiles approvingly and glances at his watch as if he was the one conceding us some of his precious time.

Sherlock's severe lack of cases is the only thing keeping me from throwing this pretentious git out the door already. 'Have a seat', I direct instead. 'Care for some tea? The kettle's just boiled.'

The client waves me off without thanking me. From his armchair Sherlock sighs dramatically and shoots off the deductions: 'He won't stay long enough, John. Wife took off with his money, and more importantly his car. Not because she needed a car, but because the car was treated as good as her husband's mistress. She knew he wouldn't be indifferent to the loss of the car, a sports convertible with low steering wheel and a very sensitive clutch. The car theft is fine by me, considering he's a jerk who's never worked a day in his life, married rich, likes to act busy so to impress people he doesn't know, and the said car was a wedding gift bought with the wife's trust fund. _Next, please!_ '

I smirk and lean back on my chair as the offended client tries to protest hysterically.

 _ **.**_ _ **Tuesday .**_

'Slow morning again, Sherlock?' I ask, holding in a yawn. Didn't catch enough sleep last night. _The usual reason._

Sherlock looks up to me from his Sudoku. Must have got it from Mrs Hudson.

'This is tedious', he drawls, irritable.

I glance at the little book, over half way done. 'Doing good there, mate! Have gone past the medium difficulty ones?'

'Yes', he reluctantly answers, with no joy or pride. 'Twelve times over.'

I frown, confused. He points over to the recycle bin in the kitchen. I look over. It's bursting full of similar books, all different sizes and colours, same type of mathematical puzzle.

'Yeah... You may want to take a break, Sherlock', I warn my obsessive friend. He's wasting his sharp mind in these puzzles, and I'm starting to really feel for him now. Sherlock craves something exciting to defy his expectations, make him feel more alive.

The Baker Street's genius looks up to me; haggard, honest, exhausted. I look back with similar intensity and expression. He swallows dry. _We could both use a break._

'Breakfast?' I ask, lamely. He's about to shake his head when his phone pings an incoming text. He fishes out his phone from the dressing gown pocket and smiles energetically as he faces the screen. 'It's Lestrade, John. A case, a case! At last!'

I'm amazed how the prospect of a well-anticipated case has lifted years from Sherlock's demeanour, and he's already waltzing down the living room to grab his coat with one hand as he holds the phone up with the other, studying Greg's text.

Suddenly all comes to a tense halt, as Sherlock deflates with a sigh and flops in the nearest seat, that happens to be my armchair.

'What is it? What's the matter?' I ask.

He looks away, drained and defeated. 'Solved it already, before I even left the flat.'

 _This is really a bad dry patch for Sherlock Holmes._

'Well, have you told the solution to Greg?'

'Who?'

'Don't mess around right now! Are you going to tell Lestrade the case's solution?'

'Yeah', he agrees, feeling obviously coerced and in no hurry.

I take out my phone. 'Fine, I will do it for you. What do I tell him?'

Sherlock rolls his eyes, holding the solution to some unspoken ransom.

'Sherlock, I'm waiting here!'

He suddenly leans forward, and I almost step back in surprise.

'Fine. I'll give you the message to pass on to the lazy Yarders, but I want a game of Cluedo.'

I sigh and give in, you know, for Law and Order's sake. Breakfast is hardly ever ordinary with Sherlock anyway.

 _ **.**_ _ **Wednesday .**_

'This is moronic, John!'

I sigh inwardly. 'It's a word search, Sherlock. It's meant to be entertaining.'

'Four year olds can do this, given enough time.'

'Hey, I like it!'

'Thus proving my point', Sherlock mutters.

I sigh inwardly. 'Give it a go, will you? Until a case arrives, at least.'

'That can take forever!' he despairs. _It's been almost two weeks._

'I bet there's a word search in there about detectives', I lead on.

He starts flipping through the pages. 'Hey, not like that! You need to do them in order!'

'Why?' he challenges me. 'Is there a rule about solving each puzzle sequentially? What if I found one word on each one, John? Would that break the rules?'

I get up and walk off before I say something I regret. I can still hear him snigger behind my back.

 _ **. Thursday .**_

Home cooked English breakfast today, my treat, and Sherlock is not allowed to refuse. The skinny detective is withering away with a poor diet for the body, as well as poor stimulation for the mind.

He's tried some distraction strategies these past days. There's been crosswords, Sudoku, and word searches. What will he come up with today?

'Sherlock, breakfast's ready!' I call out, hoping the aroma of bacon and black pudding has already perked him up.

From the long sofa I hear him say, muffled: 'Can't! A bit busy right now!'

Oh, _busy_ , that's got to be good! Such a childlike excuse chosen today. Intrigued, I go over to take a peek on my friend. He's sat at the centre of the sofa, cross-legged, attentively studying a Rubik's cube, sides all scrambled.

 _Guess he's having difficulties putting it back again._

'Sherlock, you need to eat. _That_ can wait.'

'No, it can't, it's fascinating, John!'

I scrunch my face. 'It's sold as a kid's toy.'

'It's tantalising, John!'

I sigh. He's got to be messing with me.

'Now, did I twist left then up, or did I double-twist left then up?'

'I'm sorry?' I don't get it.

'Don't be. You weren't here, you didn't see me scramble it.'

'Sherlock, I'm quite sure that's not how you play it.'

We waves the idea off. 'Tried the other way, it would take too long. My way's faster. I'm fairly sure it was a left twist then up. That makes it a down twist then right. See?' he holds the cube up triumphantly. 'Almost there!'

I roll my eyes. 'And breakfast?' I ask, demanding, hoping that dully distracted he'll respond to authority.

'I'll be there in a minute, John! Hold your taste buds, I'm on my way to the kitchen as we speak!'

Funny enough, he's still sitting down. _Note to self, Sherlock can be extremely obsessive._

I'm already pouring myself a comforting cup of coffee when Sherlock finally comes to the kitchen. He looks resolute as if he's now ready to tackle breakfast out of sheer determination.

'Yours is right there, Sherlock. You're welcome, by the way.'

The detective hardly listens, already leaning over my shoulder, peering at my laptop's screen with the local news on. Sherlock's almost favourite section of the papers too, second only to the personal adds and the necrology sections.

'John, a case!' he points right at the screen, elated.

'What? Where?'

'There! There's been a break in and entrance at a closed down retail store downtown! The intruders left only a used condom behind!'

I scrub my face and push away my breakfast. Not really hungry anymore; _thanks, mate!_

Finally I hear the detective groan. His great mind has finally clicked. 'Oh', he comments. ' _Ew..._ ' he scrunches his face.

'Yes, young love and all that', I cite tiredly. 'By all means, search for the young couple, but don't try to return lost property.' Taking a deep breath I get up from the kitchen table, holding on to my cup of coffee like a lifeline. 'And your Rubik's cube?'

We waves off in the air. 'Solved. Ages ago!'

'That's great. It's not that easy at all. You've come a long way, Sherlock .'

'Obviously', he says, relinquishing all modesty. 'I'm a genius, after all.'

With that, Sherlock huffs as his miserable world and grumpily sits eating, like in a tantrum.

I sit on my chair at last and get up at once, looking down on the uncomfortable seat. There I find a small coloured square. I bring it up to eye level, and I could swear I hear Sherlock gulping dry from the kitchen. _So that's how he's done it! He deconstructed to put it all back together again in the correct order!_

I find myself giggling with gusto. Sherlock soon joins along, a bit contrary at first, but soon realising the obvious extent of his obsession.

'Still counts as a win, John.'

'Yes, it does', I agree. At least for Sherlock; he's never one to follow the rules, anyway.

 _ **. Friday .**_

Yawning, I come downstairs with blurred eyes, thick morning voice and a stubble determined to put up a fight. As usual, Sherlock is already up and about the flat. Or, more to the point, he's sat at the kitchen table, nervous leg jerk marking some silent rock concert rhythm, and appearing very focused on something in front of him.

'Morning', I say, pasty.

'Morgen', he replies.

'Who's Morgan?' I ask, confused.

'Morgen', he corrects. 'It's German for "morning", John. You know, a little bit of foreign languages helps to keep the brain exercised. In your case, I'm afraid, you need all the help you can get.'

'Be nice', I decry.

He smirks. 'There's tea for you, John.'

I frown, worriedly. He wouldn't drug me _again_ , would he? Sherlock may have read my mind because he rolls his eyes and confronts me: 'Just drop it, John! I could drug you easily if I wanted to, but _even I_ would hesitate in a morning like this. Another night plagued with nightmares, John? You didn't have to say it. It's written all over your appearance and in your approximate delay of seven minutes to come downstairs.'

 _Oh_. I pick up my tea mug, not really feeling much like talking it over. 'And you?' I ask vaguely why he's up so soon. Instead of verbalising his agitation, he shows me his new pastime. An adult colouring book.

'Molly insisted I tried this... artistic way of wasting time.'

'Relaxing', I correct Sherlock. He gives me an evil eye.

'Still to be proved.'

I lean in, blinking to dissipate the blurriness from my reddened, dry eyes.

'It's a geometrical pattern, how in the world did you find a cat in there?' I ask, baffled and high-pitched.

He dismissively answers me: 'It's a pattern, you can find all sorts of shapes in a pattern if you put your mind to it.'

'But _a cat_?'

'I was bored. I thought that had been established by now.'

Looking away I still notice: 'You couldn't do just the normal colouring in.'

'I'm not good at following rules. Thought that was a given', he shrugs.

I smirk. _Yeah, I'd say..._

'Look, Sherlock it's Friday and you've had no fun all week... So, this weekend, why don't _I chose for you_?'

'Go on...' he concedes nothing, not yet, but there's a curious shine to his eyes.

'Funfair', I say, very seriously, and uniting my hands in front of me, expectantly.

'Are you serious?' he asks, indignant, as if it was too... _mundane_ for a high class detective.

'It's got a "haunted house", Sherlock.'

He leans forward, more captivated. 'And you, John, what would you chose once there?'

More energetic, I explain quickly: 'You know there's that stall with the riffle and the wooden ducks in a row and you win a price if you hit them all...'

'Is there?' he asks innocently.

'Where did you grow up? In a glass case? Of course, Sherlock! And then there's going to be candy apples and we can check if there's any bouncy castle that will accept adults.'

'Bouncy castle?' he asks through a mocking smirk.

'Stop that, it's good fun! Oh, and there was once this funfair with a fortune teller lady, Sherlock.'

'I'm certainly not trying that, it's too unscientific!'

'No, no, I meant I'm keeping you away from her, unless she wants her whole life foretold by a detective!'

Sherlock's smile is now a constant, and he looks so much more tranquil and content. I just smile back. I can help entertain Sherlock through the weekend, and make it up to him after such a lousy week; there's so much of the mundane world out there for him to experience. For me he'll keep braving on, experimenting the ways normal people enjoy their free time. London please beware, Sherlock is coming out of hiding.

 _ **.**_


	45. Chapter 45

_A/N: I really dislike drugs in principle, and I don't usually like to trivialise them by inserting them on my stories (it's usually touch and go). I've seen firsthand many good people, including loved ones, wasting themselves with drugs, chasing a selfish high and numbness to the world. Many have crossed the invisible threshold and have never returned whole again. But they can't see that, and I keep it a secret from them, afraid that knowledge could spiral them into yet another journey of self-gratifying destruction. Drugs destroy more than just the user, like any other addiction. They destroy the interactions, the trust, the familiarity, and abuse those relationships._

 _This plot focuses on drugs, and I might get the details wrong (I'm not knowledgeable, and my web search history is very odd as it stands). If the topic unnerves you, skip this one. If it intrigues you, just know I can't glorify drugs in a two-sided argument. If anyone out there is doing, or pondering doing drugs, please find someone you can confide in. Someone who can support you, be it a friend or an anonymous hotline. It really matters and it's not just affecting you. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

'Sherlock, what is this place?' I hiss at my friend in an angry whisper.

He glances quickly at me, trying to look casual. 'You know what sort of place this is, John. It's the local den for drug users. Don't act so surprised. Your mainstream sensitivities are clashing with the reality you know exists in this city, hidden from view. It's the undesirable, the marginalised, the hopeless who come here for a fix, for escapism and the immediate gratification. Some might even be patients of your clinic. Higgins there is hooked up on prescription painkillers. When he can't get any more from your medical colleagues, he gets them on the streets. There's no lesion, not any more, but without them he's in constant pain. Humphrey there used to be a maths teacher at a school. He just wanted to relax, so he took cocaine. Says he got hooked from the first times, and he's always chasing that mythological buzz of the first high. Harry, on the other hand, just wanted to be a cool kid and this was what cool kids around him did. Helen is a different case, she wants to forget a traumatic experience and heroin allows her to tune out and peacefully drift away for a while. She wouldn't stop it, not matter how much you'd preach her.'

I frown. 'Do they all have names starting with the same letter of the alphabet?' I call out Sherlock's fibbing.

'Fine! I don't know their names, John. But _I know their stories_. They are written in their pinprick scars, on the ragged clothes, the sunken eyes, they are the echo of other users I have actually met and whose names I forgot already, met them in my Network, or _outside it_ ', he ends without particularising where in his past he's met such people. _But I know this._ Mycroft has more than implied it, Greg has hinted, Mrs Hudson has worried.

I sigh with a groan. 'I'll take your word about the territory, Sherlock. But you have yet to explain what we are doing here.'

'Collecting a precious item that got stolen by an overachieving robber, who used drugs to force his way into an embassy. Oddly enough, after such daring theft, he knows not how to profit from such a hot object. So, in essence, we are here to do him a favour, by liberating him of that object and returning it to the embassy with my brother's eternal gratitude.'

'Your brother sent you _here_?' I feel aggravated, as if we are playing with fire by bringing Sherlock so close to temptation. We are surrounded by drug users and drugs, and no matter how repulsive it feels to me, to my friend it's got to be hitting all his invisible triggers, making him yearn for a closed chapter in his past. No matter how stoic he's being by my side, the organic memory of that past is being awaken in Sherlock like a monster that will chase him in the days to come.

'Mycroft did not specify the location', Sherlock answers me. 'He might be under the impression that I would wait a few days until the criminal ends his drugs binge. But that would be reckless, someone else in here might gets their hands on the item when the thief is spaced out, for instance.'

'They wouldn't know what to do with the item either.'

Sherlock maintains his insistence, stubbornly. 'An unprepared criminal is a reckless criminal. He's unpredictable and dangerous. We better not take the risk.'

There's a huge risk being taken right here, right now, I sense, but keep quiet about it in the end. I don't want to hurt Sherlock's feelings, give him the impression that I don't trust his recovery.

I vow to keep a very close eye on Sherlock for weeks to come. Like a potentially infected wound, I need to make sure that the detective fully heals from this little incursion in the callings of his past.

'What's that object then?'

Sherlock glances at me, proving that he's heard me, but presses his lips thin, as if securing the information into secrecy.

I squint. 'It's not _that_ ambassador's pink rubber duck, is it?'

Sherlock raises an amused eyebrow in a deadly serious expression. 'Nothing that trivial, John, I'm afraid. Global wars don't' start with purloined rubber ducks.'

I gulp drily, as I realise there is a deeper sense of mission that guides Sherlock to his temptation, to his nemesis; his personal demons.

'Well, I'm here, don't forget about me in this hell hole.'

A small affectionate smile surfaces on the detective's lips but he won't even acknowledge me this time. We keep our steady pace – perhaps a bit faster then we'd normally go – through the derelict structure.

The smell of stagnated water and the lingering pungent scent of human waste (for which blaming a broken soil pipe is the best case scenario) increases as we head towards the back of what was once a very common late nineteen hundreds building converted into a collection of small, cramped flats, rented to a volatile list of tenants. Overrun, overused, rotting to the core. Now little more than a health and safety hazard soon to be demolished, its memory erased from the city's landscape along with its shameful, unhealthy end of life.

'Sherlock, are you sure we're heading in the right direction?' Studiously, I'm committing to memory all the passages, fire escapes and ground level windows that haven't been blocked out, as we pass. The escape routes I find are too scarce for my liking.

'Of course, John. You honestly give me too little credit. I've studied this place. I know it like the back of my hand.'

I groan inwardly. He better mean that he studied the architectural plants of the building, and not that he's been here before. Once again, I hesitate to break my friend's confidence and _ask him directly_. I keep to this silly notion that Sherlock should be allowed dignified silence on a (definitely certain) drug's past he has moved on from.

I'm sure he doesn't want to talk about it, expose it with all its raw and ugly contours, and to a doctor (of all people!). I keep quiet, even though I'm repressing this deep feeling that I'm chickening out.

Perhaps there's a better time and place to mull this over with Sherlock, I tell myself.

'Did you bring your Browning, like I told you?' He stops us by the closed door of the last flat.

 _Good._ I was getting rather tired by now of the rude decor graffitied on the corridor walls around us, like silent insults shouted at us. Territorial tags and markings too, forever branding us as outsiders.

I pull out my locked gun and click the safety off, as a wordless response to Sherlock's query. My friend nods in approval and takes a hand to the door handle, twisting it. The door opens eerily easily, and slides back to give us passage with minimal noise. Sherlock goes in first, quick eyes darting around, studying the place. Another dingy set of rooms, mouldy, rotten and dirty. I keep close to Sherlock, covering his back, gun in hand.

'Where is he then?' I whisper harshly.

The detective shakes his head, blue eyes looking pale and innocent by the degraded light filtering in through the cracked, dirt-stained windows. He doesn't know, so we keep alert, on edge. 'He didn't leave the flat, according to my lookouts.'

I moisten my lips, concerned. 'Is he a user too?'

'Potentially. Unproved. It's dangerous to make assumptions, John.'

I turn all around, slowly, and stop studying the bedroom's closed door. No furniture around us, of course, just fading stained wallpaper and missing floorboards, but the room set to the side appears to be big enough for a bedroom. I sign to Sherlock to keep an eye out, I'm going in. He nods and follows me in quiet footsteps, his feet trailing over the edge of a dirtied blanket or thinned rug on the floor. Holding my gun upright by my side, I take a hand to the door knob and slowly start turning it—

A grunted noise behind me alerts me for what is already happening. Sherlock is fighting off a dangerous assailant that materialised from nowhere, behind him. I point my gun their way, but the man's desperate moves are too unpredictable and I can't risk shooting Sherlock by mistake. I double back their way, noticing the large opening on the floorboards that the man used as a hideout under the dirty rug. He waited until Sherlock and I had our backs turned to him to attack us. I see no gun or knife in his hands, but the cloud of thin dust that their erratic struggling moves is raising could conceal a potential weapon. I opt to lower my gun somewhat as I'm already reaching them. That's when Sherlock cries out triumphantly, his hand reaching up from the man's pocket with what appears to be an old, glittering gems necklace (is that what we came here for, or is it the latest fashion for embassy thieves?), and the man's eyes go darker with unconcealed fury. I see his muscles tense, try to call out a warning to an overconfident Sherlock, try to run the remaining distance between us, but Sherlock's reach for the winning move lowered his caution and the robber hits him in the neck with a closed fist.

It takes only a few milliseconds to understand what happened, and Sherlock is already extracting the empty syringe with trembling fingers. The criminal takes one last cowardly instant to knee Sherlock in the back, causing him to fall forward to the ground on his hands and knees, before taking off in a mad run.

I raise my gun to shoot him, perhaps more out of revenge than reason, as he is unarmed, but stop myself at the first painful grunt from below.

The criminal rushes out of the flat's open door, and I shoot several times against the flaky plaster and yellowed wallpaper in the thin wall that separates us. I don't even bother checking if any of my shots hit him. Sherlock is my only concern right now.

I bend myself to meet my friend. He's sat ungracefully on the discoloured floorboards, looking stunned, and holding a hand up to his neck in shock.

'Sherlock!' I yell out his name to get a response. He looks up to me, child-like fear in a moment when his expression is too honest. In that moment the doctor in me categorises all the tells available; dilated pupils, flushed cheeks, fast breathing. I try to convince myself that Sherlock didn't just get stabbed with a syringe filled of unknown drugs, but it feels like lying to myself. Sherlock must have thought the same, for he tentatively opens a hand by his side, outstretching his fingers, and focuses his gaze on it with a furrowed brow.

I catch hold of the used syringe by my friend's side, the discarded weapon just lying on the floor. Then, hastily, with shaky fingers I look for _the rest_. Evidence of what was used, how much, _how bad the situation is_. On the criminal's hideout I find the recent looking wrapper of an hypodermic needle (that matches the one used to attack Sherlock, so one less concern about contaminated body fluids being exchanged, how considerate of the creep), and an empty little plastic pouch with a residue of white powder left. Sherlock rips the pouch from my fingers and touches it with a fingertip, tasting it at once.

'High grade opiate', he assures me, then blinks. 'Sure feels that way too. He probably had it stashed for another robbery. Our thief is a multitasker, but probably not a user. The choice of a new syringe was probably meant to avoid fingerprints, as he was using gloves, did you notice? Lucky for me.'

'How much did he get in you?' I ask, feeling lost. Sherlock's unaffected deductions keeping me focused, barely.

Sherlock blinks again, his pupils still enlarging. 'Enough to last me a few hours', he answers looking away, as if he was trying to hide the source of his firsthand knowledge from me. The next moment he looks up to me, all previous signs of shame set aside. 'And you, did he hurt you?'

I shake my head. 'I didn't see him', I confess. _I should have seen him._

'Just drop it, John. None of us did', he tells me, languidly blinking now, becoming more tranquil.

'I'm getting you to a hospital, _now_.'

' _No!_ ' he shouts, imperiously.

'Sherlock, it's not a request', I say, firmly.

He grabs the phone out of my pocket and smashes it against the floor into a myriad of plastic pieces and electric circuitry.

 _Aggression, mania._ This is all coming down too fast. A rollercoaster of manipulating emotions that I cannot keep up with. 'Okay, Sherlock, calm down', I pretend to agree with him. 'We'll just call your brother then, and I'll tell him you—'

Sherlock punches me, right in the temple, impulsive, and I fall backwards on the filthy floorboards. He towers over me, perplexed and confused at once. He blinks and focuses briefly, pleading me: 'No Mycroft. Promise me, John! I can ride this out, alone, I know I can.' He gestures wildly in the air, desperate, _lost_.

'Well, I'm not leaving you alone', I say, rubbing my temple. 'You are out of your mind, and if you _ever_ hit me again, I don't care if you're high, I'm punching the daylights out of you!' I shout at him. He recoils, as a scared child. My heart skips a beat at seeing him this vulnerable, this addled. I reach out a tentative hand to his shoulder. He allows it, trailing his eyes on it. I can feel the fast rattles under his skin, as the drug takes over his system. 'It's alright, Sherlock', I promise, because it's the right thing to say to my best friend when he's so scared. Inside I'm scared too, absolutely terrified just like Sherlock must be, because none of us knows how this is going to pan out.

'No Mycroft and his million doctors. _Please_ ', he insists.

I catch a glimpse of a determinedly emotionally distant older brother entrusting his scared little brother to cold, sterile rooms of expensive rehab clinics.

Slowly I circle my arms around Sherlock's lean frame, now starting to shiver and sweat, and hug him as firmly as I dare. 'I'm not leaving you, Sherlock, I'm here', I whisper to his dark curled strands of hair.

He sighs, relaxing somewhat for the first time in this hell hole.

 _ **.**_

 _ **maybeTBC**_


	46. Chapter 46

_A/N: This one's for that parallel universe where I decide to continue the last one_ _, and there'll be another one after this one._ _-csf_

* * *

 _ **. 2**_ _ **nd**_

There are shouts at a distance, some clandestine usurpers are having a heated argument on another evicted flat of this derelict building, signalled for destruction. I think I read somewhere that the city planning envisions a nice green park here, with playground infrastructures as well. Part of me wishes I was there instead. We both would be.

I'm holding my lanky friend's shaking body and pressing him to my chest. I whisper softly, as one would to drive away the monsters for a frightened child: 'It's alright, Sherlock, I've got you, I've got you.'

He shivers from head to toe and lets out a huffed, mirthless laugh, but he daren't talk. I seek his expression from his hideout in the folds of my sweater. He seems to predict my curiosity. Coyly, he looks up and slowly raises an inquisitive eyebrow as a silent question to me, _"should I let go now, John?"_

Grabbing him tighter, it's without words that I make my answer known to him. _You'd never push me away, Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere, I've got no better place to be than by your side, riding this out._

All the effort, all the fight and belief that Sherlock infused in his life to get to where he is now, all shattered in a matter of seconds. It was never like I feared for so long, that I wouldn't be enough to drive away Sherlock's demons. His trust in me was not betrayed by my failure to be at his side when he needed my support the most; well, not the way I foresaw it, at least. Sherlock's recovery was cold-bloodedly cut short by someone who might not even have been aware of his past battles. All it took was a moment of distraction and the detective's armour crumbled to the ground. Showing us all that even heroes have weaknesses.

My unfortunate friend settles down against me again, and I wind my arms tighter around his trembling frame. It's only just started and we both silently know that it's going to get worse before it gets better.

We can't stay in this dingy place forever. I discharged half of my gun's bullets when the thief took off. I've only got a few left to cover us both and Sherlock's state makes him extremely vulnerable. I weigh our odds, becoming more and more certain that I need to get Sherlock out of here before that thief (if he's alive), or a plausible accomplice, comes back.

My promise to Sherlock must remain unbroken. I won't call on Mycroft for help. My friend's trust in me for the next 24 hours is going to be vital if we are to fight this off. If I called for the fraternal help it would be a betrayal on Sherlock, one that would make me lose him forever; and Sherlock will need a friend, not a snitch, if he's to overcome this hurdle in his path. So Mycroft can't know, and other friends' help, like Lestrade's, might not be acceptable either. _Good thing I'm a doctor. I wouldn't let anyone else attempt such a foolish cover-up._

'Sherlock, can you hear me?' I ask softly.

He shakes his head in an obvious lie. I notice how tense all his body has become in the last couple of minutes.

'Are you in pain?' I ask, worriedly.

He answers in words for the first time in a while, recognising that I will require an answer for this particular question. He makes use of pasty words, drawled words, that sound wrong coming from my bright friend: 'I'm still up high. Haven't crashed yet. Do get prepared for that, John. It's quite a sight, I've been assured.'

Even drugged up my friend talks posh, I notice.

'You've been through this before', I say. Maybe I just want to hear him talk, as he appears momentarily lucid.

'Not like this', he states quietly. I wonder what he means by that. If it's the fact that was not self-imposed harm, if this time he's got a spectator, or if it's just that this time he's got a friend by his side.

'Shh...' I quieten him, as I feel him tensing up again, in leaps and bounds. 'I'm here.'

'Me too.'

I chuckle, despite the circumstances. _No kidding, Sherlock?_

'Sherlock, can you hear me? I bet there's a part of you still listening to me.'

'Always', he vows, and he sounds serious too.

'We need to head off to safety. Can't stay here, it's too dangerous. Can you walk?'

He frowns, just barely reachable through a thick cloud, it would seem. 'Baker Street?' he settles on. I don't know how much he's still following our conversation, but he instinctively recognises Baker Street as safety. _Me too._

'Yes. Baker Street. What do you say?'

He takes a few extra seconds, then nods. 'This is boring anyway', he drawls with a scowl. 'Not you, I don't mean you', he adds, closing his eyes against my sweater again. _T_ _oday_ _,_ _a drugged up Sherlock is a very clingy Sherlock._

Finally I push him away slightly, he jerks back to attention, looking confused. No more volatile temper, it would seem. Sherlock had found his inner peace and he's very docile. _Seeing Sherlock without his edge feels wrong._

I get up from the floor without fully letting go of Sherlock. His balance is extremely compromised and he keeps tilting to the right, ready to tumble over. His eyes are still glazed over and unfocused, sometimes chasing imaginary stimulus. I understand his previous choice to close his eyes and lean against me. I'm a tangible marker in a tainted reality marred with fantastic inputs that only Sherlock can grasp. In his love of a rational and orderly plain of thought, his excursions in this free-reign plain field are both tantalising and frightening.

In my own broken way, I can feel what Sherlock must be going through. I've had enough showdowns with warped realities due to my post traumatic stress disorder to know how painfully vulnerable it is for him right now, keeping one foot in each reality, juggling them both to make sense of his surroundings.

Taking only the time for a deeper breath, I trespass Sherlock's arm behind my neck and hoist him from the floor. Immediately I realise I can't trust his shaky legs to support him. It's alright, I may be shorter than my friend, but my army training will help me carry him off to safety. This is no different from the war. Sherlock's own war.

'I was a teenager when I started', Sherlock offers, of his own accord, as I grunt under his weight, forcing his uncoordinated frame forward. _It's going to be a long walk._

I glance at Sherlock's face. He smirks slowly and explains: 'Well, you were wondering, John, I can tell.'

Actually, I wasn't. Not this time. He read me wrong. For the first time ever, Sherlock deduced me way off. He must have read in me tells that weren't there. His confused mind supplying the rest. But I won't tell him that. Don't want to put him off. His deductions are, as far as I can gather, faithful enough to the studied subject. I could have been wondering that. Had I not been wondering if there was a faster way out of this hell hole, and back into safety.

'Mycroft found out when he came home in the school holidays. Or was it the summer break from Uni?' he frowns, as if he's focusing hard – and completely forgets to walk. I nudge him along. He starts again, mechanically, ungracefully, in unbalanced footsteps.

'Eventually you got clean', I remind him of better days.

'Oh, yeah', Sherlock agrees with a photogenic smile. 'Several times', he adds, more to the point.

'No more drugs at Baker Street', I take the opportunity to firm down, while he seems to be in a listening mood.

He nods instinctively, then lets his expression cloud over. 'You're no fun, John.'

'You like it like that', I say, without bite. He breaks down in amused chuckles, so strong that I need to stop and hold him up so he won't fall to the floor.

I much rather have a childishly happy Sherlock than one who gets frightened by the demons his mind can conjure, and so I just smile benignly.

A sharp voice emerges from one of the supposedly empty flats close by: 'Oi! Gimme your money, old man!'

I roll my eyes. Not to the characterisation, no, there's a point to that, as he looks very young. Just at the whole gatekeeper act, "give me all your money or I won't grant you passage". Different wordings, always the same threat.

Glancing down at the knife on the kid's hand I know I'll have to deal with him. I lean Sherlock's uncoordinated frame against the corridor's wallpaper and graffiti, and whisper to my friend: 'This won't take a second, mate!'

'Gimme your money, I said!' the kid shouts, going hysterical, unpredictable. He's probably on a high of his own too.

I turn to him and over-pronounce every word, controlling my temper as much as I can: 'No. You give me a reason; _I really want a fight_. My best friend has been drugged', I hear a noise behind me from the said best friend sliding down the wallpaper to a sitting position on the floor, 'and we're still here. I don't want to be here. I'm having a really bad day, right now. Can you see the problem? I don't like having bad days', I add, taking a step closer, menacing. The kid blinks, looking unsure. Finally taking me serious, he turns around and closes himself inside the flat. I bet he's standing right behind the door. I can hear him breathing hard. I kick the door viciously, for what it's worth it. I don't want him gaining up the courage and coming up behind our backs. He squeals at the impact and I can still hear his heavy breathing inside the flat, a bit panicked. He wouldn't have lasted long in the war, not like that. _I guess it's_ _a different war zone here._

Shaking my head, I come back to Sherlock, who's sat as a tight ball on the floor. He's looking at me with unfiltered awe. 'You would have come handy a few years ago', he tells me. 'Does that trick work with dealers too?'

'You won't have the chance to find out', I tell him, wisely, as I'm pulling him up again. He leans against me as if his legs are on a time constraint to become jelly. I hold him up the best I can. _It's not very nice, forcing him to walk on such a valiant high, John._

 _I need to take him to the safest place in London, asap._

The labyrinthine corridors seems to drag on forever as I force my valiant friend to walk by my side, half-carried half-coerced. Luckily we face no more wanna-be wrongdoers, chemically inspired or otherwise. All the while I'm wondering how I'll get Sherlock into a cab without us getting an ASBO.

I really had enough with those ASBOs.

The cold night air greets us back in the side alley we came through, indifferent to our changed reality. Sherlock reacts to the cold by sagging further down from my grasp. I hold on to my best friend as best as I can, worriedly.

'Damn it, Sherlock! No time for the Sleeping Beauty act...' I protest as I grab tighter the long coat, gangly limbs, curls mop ensemble with no willpower of its own left. With a deep breath I desperately hoist him over my shoulder, long legs dangling in front and curls and arms loose on my back. Won't make it far; but as far away I can get from here is better already.

I'm not doing very well. In fact, I'm sagging under the weight of the skinny detective, that is paradoxically heavyweight, by the time I get to the main road. It's there that I get the newest shock of the night.

My gun has flow up to position without me even knowing it, desperate to keep Sherlock safe when he's apparently lost from this world. There's someone pondering worriedly the derelict building's main entrance, and I know him well.

'Greg, how did you find us?' I ask, stunned. I lower my gun at once, stashing it away by my lower back.

He curses, not so gently, as he recognises my load. Immediately he comes forth to help us. I allow him. I don't think I could do this alone anyway.

'What's wrong with Sherlock?'

'Drugged. Opioid. He was attacked in there.'

Greg wanders a apprehensive glance at my black eye. He must think the criminal did it, or that it happened while I was valiantly trying to protect Sherlock. Not even the chance of taking credits for a job I didn't perform well – keeping Sherlock safe – will make me tell Greg the truth.

The DI lectures at once: 'I was worried about you, guys, coming to the scene without backup. Didn't I tell you guys to wait till morning?'

'How did you know we had come here?' I ask, as if this could be the right time for those questions.

'Went by Baker Street. Mrs Hudson spilled the beans at once. She worries about you guys a lot. And she should, innit? Coming here without backup. One of these days you are going to get yourselves killed!'

Greg is already volunteering a ride, opening his car's back door for me to get Sherlock in. No matter the nagging fatherly advice the ride comes with – that in any other time I'd recognise as well intended, but now I'm just too hyped up – the ride is a most welcomed twist of fate, that I'm not wasting tonight.

'How did you know the address?' I mutter.

'That was the other thing. Got an anonymous text with this address, can you believe that?' I glance at Greg. The detective inspector clearly doesn't believe that, judging by his expression. We both know where it came from, but he superstitiously keeps Mycroft's name silent outdoors.

Mycroft must have realised Sherlock was likely to go retrieve the object at once. Sherlock's older brother is fairly clever (though not as much as he thinks he is), and plus he's got access to the city's cctv cameras in real life time. That helps with the whole omniscient act.

Greg gives me a few seconds to manhandle Sherlock to a comfortable position on the back seat of the car, to where I strap him in position with the seat belt, and then adds meaningfully: 'Good thing I dragged myself out of bed to come here, huh?'

I nod tiredly. _I'll never hear the end of this._

I climb to the back of Greg's car, on the other side, and Greg takes the wheel, like a convenient, friendly cabbie. 'My place or your place?' Greg asks as if it's totally normal to chose the rehab facilities for your friends in a casual chat.

'Baker Street. Sherlock agreed earlier. Look, Greg–' I start.

'Not my first rodeo, John', he tells me cryptically, starting the car and taking it back to the road.

 _"It's a drug's bust"_ , I recall Greg's words from a long time ago.

'He's really not doing something as stupid as drugs, Greg, he's not. He got stabbed with them.'

'Oh, crap', the DI comments. He glances at Sherlock through the rear-view mirror. 'Poor sod.'

Greg's availability to help Sherlock without knowing the full picture is a generous act of faith on our friend, I notice, wondering how many of these episodes has Greg witnessed before I got to meet Sherlock.

I decide not to ask Greg. I rather have Sherlock telling me that than to break my best friend's trust.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	47. Chapter 47

_A/N: I wanted to finish this one in one chapter. It turned out to be more like two, in length, so another one to come. Whether this is a good plot, I honestly doubt it. -csf_

* * *

 _ **. 3**_ _ **rd**_

Mrs Hudson comes to Baker Street's front door as the three of us burst through, alerted no doubt by the sound of her front door receding violently against the hall's wallpaper. She comes out of her ground floor flat, drying her hands to her apron, when she first lays her pitiful gaze on her "sweet boy". There's a barely suppressed fury in her motherly concern that I'd never want to find myself on the wrong side of.

Sherlock's balance is totally shot; and it's Greg and me, supporting him on each side, that get him through he front door with a modicum of dignity. Not much dignity, for the inspector's driving skills did nothing to alleviate Sherlock's empty stomach's turmoil, and the consulting detective retched what little he had in there. Sherlock being Sherlock, and probably not having had a decent meal since the last Bank Holiday, managed to indignantly purge little more than a meager saliva and stomach acid mix.

The landlady brought warm cupping hands to Sherlock's cheeks and fussed over him. 'What have you gone and done to yourself, young man?' she mothered him, fixing a stern gaze on her "poor boy".

As for myself, I'm sure my cheeks burn in shame as I set the record straight: 'He did no wrong, Mrs Hudson. The criminal jumped on him with a syringe full and I – I couldn't stop it.' _I'm so sorry, Sherlock._ I set my sagging shoulders straight again. My failure to protect my friend hurting more than just Sherlock. Everybody around him gets affected too. I really blundered on this one. Mrs H, Greg, all of Sherlock's friends should come and have a go at me for my failure.

Greg glances at me and frowns at my stoic attitude, probably misinterpreting it. He corrects the record: 'There was a mishap, it was no-one's fault, really! Mrs Hudson', he adds, directed at the kind old lady, 'would you get some strong black coffee going for Sherlock?'

She nods at once, taking charge and walking away from her earlier immobile stance on the corridor that kept us from going up to the flat. Suddenly she looks energised, despite the lateness of the hour. She is part of the team already, as she finds a mission where she can help "her boys".

Greg's good at this, I recognise, as the detective inspector rallies up a team effort around Sherlock.

'Come on, John, let's get him upstairs. Don't know how much longer your shoulder is going to last before you drop him...'

I feel my cheeks blushing again, but this is not about me right now. Not about my left shoulder straining under the dead-like weight of a consulting detective (and his heavy wool coat), whose arm is draped over my shoulders for support. I'd never drop Sherlock at his most vulnerable. _I'll go down before he does._

Hopefully that won't happen on the stairs, it'd be far too dangerous.

With a deep breath I grab Sherlock's trousers belt and angle the ragdoll detective towards me, supporting my friend's full weight. 'I've got him!' I promise Greg's unsure facial expression. He pretends not to notice how strained my gasped breathing has become. 'Just get the flat door open for me', I redirect his attention. As soon as he turns I huff, out of breath already.

Greg's acceptance is reticent, but he knows full well that the three of us would never fit the tight stairwell side by side. Sherlock is my responsibility, the way I see it. The inspector climbs up the stairs, making sure 221B is unlocked as usual, and that the path towards the long sofa is cleared of hazardous experiments, boxes of crime scene evidence from cold cases, and general nondescript clutter. It probably wasn't, I gather, as I hear some noise from upstairs, Sherlock and I are uncoordinatedly tackling the first flight of stairs.

'That's it, hang on me, Sherlock. Almost there. Great, that was really a great job on that first step! Sixteen more to go, you've got this!'

I cheerlead my friend's unsteady efforts up the narrow flight of stairs. By the second half, I'm more than done being the friendly John, and it's Captain Watson taking over, where Sherlock is taken as a POW and I drag him up the stairs myself. Yet I keep praising my addled friend's efforts, for I want him to keep the belief that he's got this under control, that this is fully manageable.

All the while on that narrow stairwell, Sherlock is all but an empty shell of himself. Wherever my incredible friend's mind has wandered, it will not dazzle us with its brilliancy. Sherlock has flicked off the switch, and the empty man that I help up the stairs bores all outward similarity with my best friend, but none of the personality traits that comprise him. In a very selfish way – I know – it makes me feel so incredibly alone.

I keep that from Sherlock too, I'll keep this entire debacle, because deep inside me I feel this is my fault. I've allowed and incentivised Sherlock's recklessness, that led him to this situation. I've not protected him from harm, and I'm the soldier here. I failed my friend and quietly I internalise the blame for it.

Greg's waiting in the landing, having turned on every light switch in the living room. Sherlock winces at the sudden bright input of blinding electric lights, oversensitive, edging towards me in search of protection. Greg helps me carry Sherlock that last distance to the sofa, where we lay him down in recovery position, before the inspector dims some of the room's lights.

'My med kit, Greg', I ask, not wanting to part with my vulnerable friend. I still keep a hand over Sherlock's shoulder, making sure he's relaxed and comfortable; and it comforts me too. 'It's inside my wardrobe, upstairs.'

Greg nods, seeing a new light dawn on me. Doctor Watson will take over for now, and Greg is fine with that. As he goes upstairs, I think I can hear in his weary footsteps that he is exhausted already.

Must take care of Greg too.

 _It's going to be a long night._

 _You wouldn't find doctor Watson anywhere else._

 _ **.**_

Two hours into it and Sherlock is moaning softly under his breath, unintelligibly. He's safe, comfortable and high. I've taken a watchful position from my armchair, sipping the now cold cup of black coffee our kind landlady has prepared.

'I can stay here and watch Sherlock, if you need a break', Greg offers, re-entering the room. His kind offer fills momentarily that emptiness in 221B.

Without Sherlock's true presence, 221B feels hauntingly empty.

I shake my head briefly to answer Greg. 'You should go home', I notice. 'It's really late.'

'Nah, this is not done yet...' he answers, full of experience and common sense. 'We should probably take shifts, though. We both could use a nap.'

Absent-mindedly I volunteer: 'Take my room upstairs.' Then I fake a smile and joke: 'I promise we're not going to sneak out to a party behind your back...' Then sadly I notice: 'Sherlock's wasted already anyway.' _I think I'm exhausted too._ My mind is connecting the dots weirdly.

Something I rambled seems to have ticked off the inspector. Greg raises an eyebrow in contempt. 'John, you need to stop allowing Sherlock to take stupid risks. You are supposed to be the responsible one.'

'How am I to do that? He's a grown man!' Greg smirks. 'Oh. Okay. I see how I shot myself on the foot with that one', I say, dignified.

'He listens to you, John', the inspector insists. 'He really does. More than he ever did with me, his brother Mycroft (scary creature as he may be) or anyone else I know.'

'I told his Orwellian big brother; I'm not Sherlock's handler!'

Greg fumes at once. 'Sherlock doesn't need a handler. On occasion he needs some guidance, that's all.'

I shake my head and sip the cold, unsatisfying coffee.

'Sherlock Holmes only does what pleases him.'

'Now how's selling Sherlock short?'

I shake my head more vehemently.

'Sherlock is a wild card, unpredictable and dangerous.'

'You don't believe that, John. You know him. That's just Sherlock's façade, and he really enjoys outing up that front for you, because he wants to impress you.'

'What?' I don't get it.

'Granted, Sherlock has got his own morals, his own set of rules, and a penchant for defying authority. But at the end of the day, he has built this front for you, John, a wall bigger and thicker than anyone else's. I'm guessing that's because you are his closest friend and with you he feels the most vulnerable. He minds your opinion of him more than anyone else's. And he fears he's losing you, John. He must be terrified deep inside, right now. You have this whole new life now, you don't need him like you might have once.'

'That's silly. He's the one who doesn't need me.'

'I beg to differ. Although, frankly, for all the mind-reading act you two share, for all the inside jokes and insane danger-filled decisions, you two are crappy communicators, really. And, sometimes, it'd do you both a world of good if you had the guts to talk to each other for real. I tell you what; it'd make your shoulder hurt a lot less than it is right now.'

And with that haggard tirade, a slightly out of breath Greg Lestrade turns to leave before I can rebate.

'You're taking the first shift, John', he tells me, sharply, as he walks off.

I shrug, he's already going up the stairs. _Mate, I'm not leaving Sherlock's side, I'm doing all the shifts._

 _ **.**_

The first painful moan awakens me from a light doze. I jerk and realise I've let my guard down. My wristwatch calls it three in the morning. On second thought I couldn't care less about the time. I get up and in muffled footsteps I head over to Sherlock, who is now silently trashing on the sofa. The afghan blanket I had draped on him is now a bundle on the hardwood floor.

My friend's pale skin is clammy and cold as I place a hand on his forehead, and with the other I gently check his pulse. A bit warm, a bit fast; but none life threatening. I think he's having a nightmare. Probably he's already coming off of it. That would explain the light shivering on his rigid body, that seems to emanate from the detective's craving core.

'Shh, I'm here, I never strayed far. I need you to quieten down now, Sherlock. Let this pass, don't fight it, it'll just prolong it.'

Suddenly he snaps his feverish eyes open towards me. Deep set on his angular face and livid skin, they give me the shivers.

'John!' he seems to recognise my presence, yet he's looking over my shoulder. I feel the need to quickly disengage from my friend and check my rear; no threats there. I look back at Sherlock. Something is scaring the daylights out of my usually brave friend.

'Sherlock?'

'John, it's not safe! You can't be here!' he confides in a hurried whisper, and with a paranoid glance around the room. 'He's here!'

'Who is? I ask, frowning.

'He will kill you', Sherlock spins on his hallucination's back-story. I don't know whether to reason with him or to shush him.

'No he won't', I assure.

'That's what he said.'

I frown on that too. 'Calm down, Sherlock. It's just you and me here. It's safe. It's Baker Street.'

He stops talking, confused, as he's looking around at the old flat where his hallucinations are superimposing danger. His hand clenches around my arm, desperate. I don't know if he means to hold me down or to keep hold of my presence.

'It's okay', I promise him, lowering a hand on his shoulder, at this soaked through shirt, sticking to his shoulders and back. In fact, I run my hand over his back, all muscles tensed up, trying to sooth my friend, scooting closer to him. I can feel the frantic heartbeats rippling across the damp Egyptian cotton. I rub his back and I can swear my fingertips can feel welts on his skin. I literally flinch, as I recognise what this means. Scars. It makes me feel nauseated. Not that the scars repel me at all. They are an integrate part of Sherlock, just like mine are of me, and just like this past he's revisiting. Part of the full incredible person my friend is.

'He wants to kill you, John. I can't let him. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.'

I hug my desperate friend in a cold, moonlight filled flat, hoping that wherever Sherlock thinks he is he can feel it. From my brief hiding over his shoulder I finally allow that dampness on my face. Sherlock is a brilliant soul and a kind and generous one too, he should have never been dragged into a war with Moriarty. I should have handled the super-criminal myself, I was the soldier, I was the one damaged all along.

Sherlock's generosity is a heroic gift I'll never be able to fully repay in kind.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	48. Chapter 48

_A/N:_ _Annddd... the last one_ _. -csf_

* * *

 _ **. 4**_ _ **th**_

'You could get me some, John.'

I open my eyes as Sherlock is staring intently at me, his nose less than an inch away from mine. His whole frame vibrates with intensity, as he lays two strong hands splayed on my chair's arms and he hovers over me. I frown.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why do I keep letting my guard down?

Giving him a polite smile I still won't budge. 'No. I really couldn't do that, Sherlock. You're doing great, by the way.' More polite pep talk, but what else can I say?

He growls, quite literally I'm afraid, and revolves on his dressing gown as he turns away, feigning coldness. He's going for Despise, but all I'm getting is Childish. 'It's not _great_. I'm crashing off of it. _Look at me_ ', he hisses, fixating on me again with delirious eyes, 'I'm being betrayed by my transport, it's odious!'

I sigh, feeling for my friend. I really do. It wouldn't be easy on anyone, let alone for Sherlock Holmes, who never allows his body's needs to rule his mind. Sherlock senses my thoughts, and jumps at such perceived weakness as a gateway to getting what he wants.

'I don't know why you are here, John! You are _useless_ as a doctor or a friend if you can't fix this.'

I take it in. Anger, hate. I can take it. I can use this energy in my favour. I can interact more now than with Sherlock's previous lethargy. I'm a soldier. He can push my buttons all he likes.

'Give it time, Sherlock', I ask him. _Perhaps, I even begged him._

He rolls his eyes mockingly, then circles me, pondering his flatmate. How to manipulate me, how to play me. I feel instantly hurt. Yes, Sherlock might be a mastermind of reasoning and deduction, but he shouldn't give me so little credit. I can be stubborn, if nothing else. I can be strong when he's not.

' _You_ can fix this, John.'

'No.'

' _I_ can fix this.'

I bet he can. There's possibly one last stash hidden in this very flat. A safeguard. A last refuge for a lost man with failing hope. _Now who's doing the mind reading?_ I smirk, proud of myself. I'll keep that card for later.

'I won't let you "fix this". And you don't really want either, Sherlock.'

He mocks me, acidic: 'How did you get to that train wreck deduction, John? Tell me, it must be amusing to hear how your sluggish mind works.'

I ignore the despise in his tone of voice, knowing he can't help it right now, and he won't mean it later.

'Well, you woke me up, Sherlock. So I could stop you. Now you lost the chance to get away with it.' I raise a cocky eyebrow.

I might have been a bit mean there. He huffs, angrily.

'Don't be so smug, John!' he snaps back. 'I've been drugged, ergo don't expect the best decision making!'

I smirk, as I watch him use up his pent up energy, walking the living room in circles.

 _ **.**_

Time _might have_ warped back to the beginning; I don't know, and I'm too tired to check. Here I am, arms wrapped around my vulnerable child-like friend again, as he shakes and shivers, and I try to keep him from all the nasty monsters in the world.

Resting my chin atop his damp dark curls, I find myself rocking back and forth in the quiet dusky flat.

This is Sherlock at his most vulnerable, barriers broken, façade destroyed, only a small retired army doctor holding him together.

'A part of me welcomed it', he murmurs, just between the two of us. 'I missed it.'

 _I know, Sherlock._ He adds:

'And, of course, I trusted you to keep reality in check for me, John.'

I nod, squashing some bouncy curls in the process. 'I get it.'

'It will always be a part of me.'

'You are so much more, though', I say, with a touch of crispiness. My voice breaks as I confide: 'I worry you return to drugs between cases. Sometimes I worry within cases. For cases. Whatever. It's always on the back of my mind, like it is in yours. I fear that I may say something wrong. That I will inadvertently trigger your systematic destruction of yourself. It's like walking on egg shells. And it's your own life, I get it. But you are my friend, I will not let you go. Ever.'

He stills himself unnaturally. I worry he's in pain, but when I glance down he's calmly looking up towards me. His aqua coloured eyes appearing stormy in the darkened flat. I blink hurriedly and look away; so much for the steady soldier act.

Sherlock starts, awkwardly: 'I didn't fully realise— I never really meant—'

'Hush. I know.'

Keeping quiet, he rests his weight back against me with a small tired sigh. I hold my arms around him, never wanting to let go.

I don't want to know the time, I don't want to defy this moment. I just hope I'm not dreaming Sherlock's quiet acceptance of his burdens and my support alike.

 _ **.**_

Eventually Sherlock and I rode the worst part of his crash. It was raw and emotional, and it scared us both.

I only realise I fell asleep again at some point as I'm awoken by a bitter scent of a strong cup of tea materialising close to me. I sniff it, shy away, and blink over and over again as I open dry itchy eyes. Finally I look over. Sherlock is offering me tea with trembling hands.

'Oh, god! Did I fall sleep? _Again?_ ' I blink hard.

He smirks, all control restored. 'Obviously yes, John. Do uptake on your caffeine levels, you seem particularly slow today.'

 _Oh, shit._

I shuffle on the uncomfortable armchair, where a broken spring nudging my knee is the least of my problems. 'So, did you go out?' I ask coldly. 'Got yourself another fix? Did you tell yourself it was just to level your hangover, to go back to being the usual arrogant prick?' I get up at once, ignoring all my cramped muscles. _I'm not particularly happy with my sleep-deprived transport_ _either_ _right now._ 'Did you think I wouldn't notice, or worst, that I wouldn't care?'

He rolls his eyes at me. _There we go; I had my chance and I lost it._ I pass the piping hot mug from my right hand to my left, as my fingertips are edging on numb with near first degree burns. Next thing I know the tea mug shatters on the floor by my feet, splattering the hot murky liquid Sherlock calls tea on my jeans and shoes. I look on, dumbly, and then at my left hand. It's trembling so hard it's now a full-on shake. Sherlock is the one off drugs (not totally, I think he went out, while I was asleep, for a refill) and I'm the one with the worst shakes.

Sherlock is looking down on my hand too. He cringes visibly and looks up to my face; he looks young, scared, out of his depth. Suddenly he grabs me by the shoulders firming me in place. 'What happened? Did he drug you too? Tell me, John!' he yells on my face. 'No, your pupils are not dilated, you're not perspiring, your heart rate is consistent with the highly emotional moment you're experiencing. You aren't high on drugs, John', he deduces.

I blink. 'Of course not!' I protest. 'I'm not the one high right now!'

He scorns: 'That's yesterday's news, John! All gone now, I should know!'

I shake my head. I know this, my worst fears are materialising. 'You're too... perky.'

'That's a ridiculous characterisation, John.'

'You caught me off-guard, I didn't have time to read a dictionary', I protest, sarcastic, trying to set myself free of his grasp. 'Where did you get it? Was it someone from your network? I'm going to kill that person, do they know?'

He smiles, defiantly proud. 'No need to kill or maim anyone, John. I did not go out for another high.'

I shout back at my friend: 'If that were true you'd be a shivering, headached, nauseated mess right now! I'm a doctor, will you remember to respect my training for once?'

Sherlock exhales slowly. 'All of the above', he says, much more quietly. 'And your shouting at me is not helping', he adds, without true grudge. 'However, you seem to forget I have years of practice in hiding such symptoms.'

I squint. 'Are you saying you didn't get some more? While I slept?'

'That's exactly what I'm saying.'

 _I so much want to believe him._ I push on. 'Or got it already in the flat? A secret stash, perhaps?'

He huffs, but ultimately looks away. _I knew I was onto something._ 'Behind the telly, under the fireplace logs, behind the mirror, under the second drawer of the filling cabinet, inside the skull. Those are my usual hideouts. They are all clean.'

I look all around to the mentioned places, and it leaves me feeling dazed and lost. 'Really?' _Promise?_ He knows I'll double check.

He blinks. 'They weren't clean in the morning, when I woke up and you were asleep.'

'I knew it', I say, my voice breaking. That feeling of guilt settling heavily on my gut again.

Sherlock continues: 'I flushed it all down the toilet. Couldn't well have temptation so near me. Usually they are an ultimate resource if I ever feel that desperate. I got rid of them, John. Even the contents of the secret twin Persian slipper.'

'Oh. So, there is another Persian slipper?'

'Of course, John, they usually come in pairs.'

'Full disclosure, huh?' I ask, smiling at last.

He nods, as if words could be manipulated easily and he doesn't want them to betray him in ambiguity this important time. A simple nod of acquiescence.

A small sigh of relief comes out of me, and I'm ashamed of it. 'So I helped', I gather.

'You help every day, John.'

I shake my head, and end up feeling dizzied by the movement. Sherlock doubles his hold on me. Each one of us holding the other one through their ordeal.

'We have a lot to talk about, Sherlock', I state clearly. He looks surprised.

'Ah', he finally gets it. 'I must have mumbled in my addled state.' He's not happy with himself, for sharing any information. He'd rather hold on to his demons by himself.

'Please stop pushing me away.' _Damn my voice for breaking at this time_ _!_ 'You can ruin your life anyway after you've heard my say, but you'll know it's not only your life you're ruining.'

He faces me, as if scared for the first time in sobriety and control. Scared for more than himself. I want to give him a reason for not going back. Ever. I want to believe our friendship matters enough to him, is important enough to help him along. Yet I fear he may be too far gone, he won't accept my basic, desperate manipulation. I am desperate to have Sherlock healthy, alive and brilliant, as only my best friend can be.

Sherlock studies me, quietly, with a tinge of raw emotional pain in his haggard but so young-looking expression.

'Told you; it's old news. I don't do drugs anymore.'

'You wouldn't, even for a case?' I ask, sharply.

He hesitates. 'If there was a higher cause, obviously I would need to consider—'

'It kills me inside', I interrupt, coming forward. 'It's your life, Sherlock, and I can't be so important to you that you'd stop taking risks, being careful around triggers and going to drug dens. But I need to say this today: it breaks me every time.'

He gulps, and I can see him struggle to remain rational, contained.

Suddenly he pulls me in close, in a tight hug. We stay silent in 221B's living room, trying to support each other.

 _ **.**_

Greg's gone home, after another full-on well-meant lecture to the sobered detective. I was sniggering along at Sherlock's scowls, but that was before Greg gave me a lecture as well.

Finally the two of us alone, I hold a secret twin Persian slipper in my hand, wondering who'd go out (to the supermarket, the post office, or the park) with those silky, curly, pointy shoes in rainy England.

Sherlock is holding the shoe's contents. His ultimate stash – promises of oblivion, relief, ecstasy or more – hidden away in a very creased, folded envelope. Harmless looking yet we both know what it holds and how incredibly destructive it is.

'Haven't touched it in years', Sherlock tells me. I hum. He adds, longingly: 'Such a shame to let it go to waste.'

'Shall I have it then?' I blackmail my friend. He physically shivers as a result of the idea of allowing me to fall into that dark pit. At least he recognises the mistake. He needs to learn to treat himself better. He wouldn't let me fall into the tempting chemical dependency, and he shouldn't allow himself.

Altered neurochemistry of the brain, oversensitive pleasure centres and eager fireworks at the synapses, I recall. It's a dark monster that will always a have a hold on Sherlock.

 _And I'll always be here._

'You don't have to do this _now_ ', I take pity on him.

'Yes, I do', he knows, with a tired sigh. Facing the fireplace he's ready to dispose of that metaphorical security blanket, one last high he could always resort to.

'You can do this, Sherlock', I incentivise. It's a symbolic gesture, sure, and he can always replace it, but we both know this is a turning point on Sherlock's history.

With a cocky wink of one who knows he's centre stage in a solemn moment, Sherlock finally drops the creased envelope and its dark contents to the flames. Immediately the fire engulfs the harsh temptation, consuming it.

'That's great, Sherlock', I say, looking on. 'Feel better?'

'Not yet', he says, too honest. 'But I will.'

I nod. _I know so._

We both ponder the tranquil looking crackling flames when a strange scent starts spreading about 221B.

 _Oh._ Sherlock and I share a wide eyed look.

Sherlock grabs hold of my arm, shoving me away from the fireplace. 'Don't think you should be breathing this, John', he admonishes, like it's somehow my fault. 'Stop fighting me, John, you are particularly unaccustomed and vulnerable to the vapours, you idiot... Mrs Hudson! We're evacuating Baker Street!' he shouts over my shoulder, still dragging me along. 'You all know the drill! Everybody out in less than 23 seconds!'

I let him boss me around, sure, but only because I'm so stunned. Only this retired soldier could garner such an intense response from the worse for wear detective.

We're already descending the stairs, with hands cupping our noses and mouths – not that it will do much good. We grab Mrs Hudson on our way out as she feebly protests: 'Sherlock, dear, I'm glad you're looking so much better, but is this really the time for another drill?'

The detective masters his best innocent smile and puppy eyes to retort: 'It's all John's fault, Mrs Hudson.'

 _Wait, what?_ I gasp, speechless.

At a distance we hear the first sounds of emergency services' sirens.

'Oh, good, Mycroft's already on it!' Sherlock comments, and I glance at my friend. He's smiling! Did the rough patch really change their fraternal relationship? Has Sherlock had time to ponder why Mycroft worries so much about his baby brother?

Sherlock glances back at me and replies, smugly: 'Saves me the trouble to go out to him and return the item we recovered from the drug den, John, do keep up.'

I smirk. _No, Sherlock_ _publically_ _admits to no change at all._

But I know better. Sherlock has allowed me to see the frailest side of him, unfiltered, blemished, raw. I fancy he's seen something of me too, as he faced his demons. My stubborn protection, the way I firmly stand by Sherlock's incredible value, and how he can never really push me away.

 _ **.**_


	49. Chapter 49

_A/N: I don't think there's much of a plot to this one, I'm afraid. Sort of a balancing of the universe, if you will. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

'John!'

Sherlock's voice crosses the dimly lit room with a rare quality to his voice. My name comes out gasped, unsure, young. As a response I tense up and chuckle bitterly. Figures Sherlock would find me; _Sherlock always finds me when I'm lost._ It's just that this time I didn't stray far. This is still 221B, in the middle of the night, in some date or another. And I'm just sat in my armchair, brooding over a shoebox full of old John Watson's memories, washed upon by the cold moonlight from the window and the occasional sweeping intrusion of a passing car's reflected headlights.

'Yes, Sherlock?' I ask back over the shoulder, meekly, as I close the lid on the past.

'You are up', he says, cautiously. What a silly remark for the great detective that glorifies despising the obvious. Feels like he's testing the waters. I'd hate for Sherlock to feel like he needs to test the scene when he feels like a midnight stroll around the flat. It's his home, he should never feel uncomfortable or unprepared at home. And, anyway, what did he expect, other than his flatmate still awake, still in the living room? Did he consider he might be dealing with a sleepwalker version of his flatmate? I sincerely hope I've never given him reasons for that, and I gulp dry, lowering my gaze back to the cardboard box.

'It's all fine, Sherlock. I couldn't sleep, that's all.'

He hums, slowly, still cautiously stepping closer, starting to encircle my armchair. It prickles the hairs in the back of my neck, as if to tell me I'm being studied, deduced.

I chuckle drily, and shake my head, pushing away the box to the side table. 'Just ask me whatever you want to know, Sherlock. Enough with the hocus-pocus, x-ray vision thing. I'm here, alive and breathing. I can talk. Questions will give you answers.'

He stops short, as if I had just slapped his rare gift in the face. _I didn't mean it like that._ Sighing, I slump a bit on the armchair, bringing my hands together between my knees. _Great! a classic self-restraining position_ , as if I'm hiding something. Sherlock is sure to read my stance, now we won't leave me alone. Did a twisted part of me act this telling way to get the attention I've been dodging so well? _Bloody hell..._

I glance over my shoulder, Sherlock has just about caught up with my armchair in his quiet, feline footsteps. He looks worn out, tense, in an ongoing sort of way. I didn't wake him, then. Hardly surprising, I took every precaution to keep quiet.

'What woke you up, Sherlock?' I ask the questions, just for a bit, perhaps to feel some sort of control before I can relinquish it to my protective friend.

He eerily looks around us in the darkened living room, to the gaudy wallpapered walls and the cluttered bookshelves. 'I woke up with a feeling', he starts in a deep baritone voice. 'Much like my head was too full and too many thoughts crowded my mind, and I needed to order it, flush some of the excess out', he tenses as he explains, taking open hands to each temple, almost blocking out all of the sound, almost flinching under a reconstructed headache. 'It felt uncomfortable, like there had been a rise in atmospheric pressure and the air got unbreathable, and every thought feeling perspired and sticky...'

I can't begin to imagine how it feels to be my incredible friend. Too attuned to his own intellectual processes, that he has sharpened them so much that they manifest physically as well. Suddenly Sherlock reopens his light coloured eyes straight at me, while I'm still sat at my armchair, watching him, and with a touch of wonder he confesses: 'I don't think they were my thoughts at all tonight, John. I've become far too accustomed to your presence, so expressive, so full of nuanced emotions and thoughts. I think I was picking up _on you_. Your thoughts, John, your maelstrom of memories that you let assault you and beat you down, because you assumed you were alone and no-one would bear witness.'

I gulp drily. 'Sherlock, it's just... It's just a box full of old stuff, that's all.'

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically, and all his poise changes, like an actor taking centre stage, conscious and manipulative of the effect his presence is about to have over his audience.

'I trust, John, you won't mind if I occupy my own chair?' he asks politely.

How can I refuse? The possessive pronoun in the question made the polite answer only a formality. I nod. He didn't even wait for it, sitting down in front of me.

'Could you really sense my presence in the living room?' I admonish with a frown. 'Did I fill the room with my jumbled memories and that woke you?' _Too many embellishments in your story, Sherlock._

He shrugs. 'I was already awake, or perhaps I woke up because I uncovered myself and grew cold during my sleep. It's non-important. As to the memories of John Watson, yes, they lured me in.'

'You can't have possibly known I was even here!'

'Well, you weren't upstairs', he comments, with a twinkle in his eyes. He's got me right where he wanted me, communicative, asking him how he's done it. _Damn it._

'And how—' I let my question dissolve into a tired sigh.

'Your mattress creaks a little when you toss and turn. It's been hours since I last heard it, I suspect.'

'And your mind just tallies my turns in bed, while you sleep?' I ask sharply.

Naively, he just nods. _He doesn't like it when the flat is too silent, he's too alone_ , I read it without words. I look down on the chair's arms, where my fingers are already tapping some unknown rhythm. I force myself to stop.

'And then you felt my presence here? Sherlock, I'm not a tall man, you probably don't see my hair sticking out from the top of the chair. From the corridor you couldn't have possibly seen me here', I add some proper deduction of my own.

'Your chair is slightly angled. I may have seen your right hand on the armrest', he points pout the red tapestry.

I shake my head, feeling combative now. 'Nope. I was holding my shoulder all along because it hurt, you couldn't have—'

 _Oh._ Match point for Sherlock, null for John. I talked too much. Stubbornly I silence myself now; too little, too late.

He smirks, but it's not one of his usual victorious ones. It looks sad.

'Heard your breathing. It was heavier than you give it credit for. The short interval, the suppressed exhaling as if holding something back, it told me you were in pain. I heard all your tells, John, even the little grunts and chocked laughs that you had while going through your army paraphernalia. You didn't even register them. It was a collection of all those expressive tells that filled the room. It all screamed answers at me, when I asked _what's wrong_. It was all too fast to be properly deduced. I got up from my bed feeling, _knowing_ , the living room was filled with your thoughts, John. And I came here', he looks down, young and blushing, 'wondering if I could help share the load. It seems like an awful lot, if one person can fill this room with it. Maybe it's better if two people carry it.'

I sigh, drained of fight and energies. I look over at the cold empty fireplace, and Sherlock doesn't hurry me. He knows I'm fighting my own battle with pride.

Finally I pass along the cardboard box, without looking Sherlock in the eye. He takes it silently, giving his performance a sort of reverential dignity. He opens the box and one eyebrow shoots up on his forehead, and the other one follows suit.

'Many soldiers would be proud to have these on display', he comments.

'Just a bunch of medals', I say. 'Commemorative pieces of metals, that's all they are. You don't go out there to get a medal, Sherlock. You don't get up in the morning and say "today is the day they'll talk about when handing me a piece of metal on a strap".'

He hums, flatly.

'Others deserved them too. They didn't get them. Not while they were alive to see them, at least...'

'John...' he repeats my name, calling me back. I release the armrests I had been clawing at, my fingertips damaging the fraying fabric. Immediately repented, I brush mindful fingertips over the fabric, trying to unify it back together.

'What happened?'

He finally asks the one question that matters, that he can't deduce, that is out of reach. The room may have been filled with my thoughts as an oppressive atmosphere before the storm breaks, but _he couldn't read them_ , leaving me one last refuge of privacy that I can hold on to, or give away.

And I choose to give away.

'Anniversary of my first medal, Sherlock.' I shake my head. 'I was having second thoughts about being in the army, well being in a war zone that is. That medal convinced me to stay. I showed bravery in action, of course I stayed. And also', I look up now, Sherlock's face looks raw, 'it was the only home I knew. I had nowhere else to go. If I had left—'

'Your shoulder wouldn't have been hit', Sherlock finishes my incomplete sentence.

'I wouldn't be here', I correct with an alternative ending. 'All that happened in my life has lead me here. And I want to be here.'

He smiles, a soft, true smile this time.

'Likewise', he says, handing me back the box.

'You should be asleep', I take notice.

'So should you', he points out, with a head tilt. _Come on, John, don't be so obvious._ I nod to the unspoken conversation.

'So... Should I get a new mattress, you bloody stalker?

He looks affronted. 'Just drop it, John, don't let that idea get hold of you. I wouldn't catch a wink if you did that! Never change, John. Baker Street is just not right without you here.'

I smile bravely. 'Thanks, Sherlock.' _It's good to have come home._

 _ **.**_


	50. Chapter 50

_A/N: This is definitely an odd one._ _Is it too odd, though?_ _Oh, dear. Never mind. It's out now. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

I jerk awake, feeling quite groggy in fact. Where I am, and how I got here, are two pressing questions that need to be attended. Once my head stops spinning.

Right. A bit better now.

I sigh, feeling a bit slumped. Have I been kidnapped yet again? It has really lost its novelty by now.

Biting my lower lip, I throw my legs off this not too uncomfortable bed, and raise myself carefully. Good. Nothing silly, like pressure-sensor bombs under the bed, that's always a good start.

The room is dimly lit, aired and not too cold. It's oddly familiar, like a word on the tip of your tongue, that you can't quite remember. Which is, in fact, an odd thing to think of a bedroom (I think it's a bedroom, it's got a bed) with so little furniture.

Right. It reminds me of one of those MoD bedsits I was shuffled about, once in London. Practical, modest, honest, and downright depressing.

But enough of that. I haven't been restrained, I may or may not have been drugged previously, there seems to be no locks on the only door to the room. No windows, just one simple lamp in the bed stand, by a glass of water (no thanks, not until I ascertain that it's not, in fact, drugged).

I'm attracted by the bedroom door. It's unlocked, and not fully closed either. In fact there's an inch gap that permits some diffused light to strain in. And that's not all. Growing stronger, more defined, there's a melody drifting through, from what I assume is a corridor.

The pinched strings of a violin edge me closer in their steady, perfectly pinched chords, layered beat, almost like a primal call. They fill me with wonder and curiosity, they remind me of home, and adventure, and _Sherlock_.

He wouldn't kidnap me, would he?

The inscrutable genius works in strange ways, but I dare not believe he'd kidnap me, transport me to an undisclosed location, only to shyly pick up the violin and play for me from afar.

I don't know this melody; I've never heard it before. Must be one of Sherlock's own creations.

'Sherlock?' I call out for my friend, completely dismissing the idea of being kidnapped by the consulting detective.

The music falters just for a beat, then returns twice fold stronger, richer and deeper, more brilliant and intricate. It's like a dialogue now, with two interloped sides mingling and developing on the base chores.

My feet tap the hardwood floor of the corridor lightly as I confidently leave the tired bedsit behind and approach that heartfelt dialogue. I go to my friend, following the scent of his melody.

'Sherlock.' I call him out as I come closer. He stands at the end of the short corridor, where other nondescript doors remain closed. Sherlock's room, however, stands squarely centred at the end of the corridor, its door left invitingly ajar. My friend holds up his beloved violin and bow, elegantly holding them in place, leaning a cheek toward the warm wood, as he stands by a warm, lit fireplace. In fact, as I approach I realise how much like 221B this new room resembles.

'Hello, John', the deep voice of the unflappable detective greets me as I push past the entrance. Then he turns and smiles warmly. 'Welcome, John. You will, of course, excuse my summoning you, I need your invaluable input on my little problem.'

I blink. Sherlock is being inordinately _nice_.

'Sherlock?' I start, looking around in the 221B simile around us. 'How did we get here? And where is "here"? How come I don't remember?'

Sherlock's smile doesn't break or falter, but he seems to hesitate for an instant. As if the answer was obvious, or the question misplaced. 'What do you mean?'

I glance over my shoulder, to the corridor I just came through. Can he not see it? This is not _our_ Baker Street. 'Sherlock, I'm not sure what's happening here, but I don't like it.'

Sherlock takes a deep intake of breath. He looks a bit unsure under the I'm-so-cool façade of his, as he asks me: 'Won't you sit down?' he points at the doppelgänger of my armchair by his side. I look longingly at it, but refuse on principal.

'Not until you tell me how I got here.'

He tilts his head. 'You never asked me that before', he comments, as if now I'm being contrary just to annoy him. No more Mr Nice Guy.

I cross my arms in front of me. Sherlock elaborates at last. 'You are in my Mind Palace, John. I summoned you here. Not for the first time either. Although usually you are not this feisty. Usually you comply a bit more and seem instinctively aware that I need a soundboard for a theory, or a conductor of light to give me a new perspective, or point out something I may have missed in my lightening speed reasoning. Sometimes we just discuss the world, or absurd social niceties you have previously pointed out to me some time ago, in the real Baker Street.'

I shake my head, a feeling of doom creeping up on me. 'Am I ...dead?' Is this heaven or hell, or some sort of visual and auditory hallucination? Did I suffer a particularly bad stroke? I'm not getting any younger, and I should start taking medication for high blood pressure or something, I guess. Well, a bit late for that now!

My blood pressure was within normal parameters the last time I checked. But that was a while ago. I've been a bit busy of late... I grimace and realise what a lousy patient a doctor makes.

Sherlock has sighed loudly and melodramatically and walked off to the frosted double glass doors. I realise there's an attached 221B kitchen as well.

Did we just get 221B's living room and kitchen teleported to another place and time in the universe? Are we in some sci-fi, rules bending, universe?

No, Sherlock said I was _in his Mind Palace_. How is that even possible?

Am I not myself, but a re-imagined copy, a figment of my friend's imagination? If so, how come I have free will? Or is he thinking up this crazy internal dialogue? No, he wouldn't, it'd bore him to death, besides what would be the point?

'Here, John', Sherlock actually hands me a cup of strong tea, upon his return. 'And no, you are not dead. Just drop it, John, I would never allow you to be dead.' And with a dead smile, he particularises: 'Not that I know of, at least. And my Mind Palace is not a graveyard, customarily. You left the flat this morning to go to work, I stayed behind working on my cases.'

I blink, taking the tea, and finding strength in its warm and bitter aroma. 'So, you know where you are – I mean, where you are for real – and I'm still trapped in your Mind Palace?'

A small flicker of hurt crosses Sherlock's young expression. 'Not trapped, no', he assures me. 'I can send you _away_.'

'Wait!' I panic. 'Don't! I don't really know what would happen then. I might end up on Mars, fighting aliens on the back of dinosaurs, or something.'

Sherlock looks shocked. So maybe not on Mars.

'Do you wish to stay?' he asks me, a bit amused by my miserable predicament. He still thinks I'm just a figment of his imagination. Maybe I am. Don't know why then would I suddenly develop a sentient mind of my own.

I feel like myself, not like Sherlock's imaginary friend.

I look up, straight at my patiently waiting friend and nod. Yes, I wish to stay. At least untill I understand this.

'Did I ever, you know, wondered what on earth was I doing in your mind before?' I ask, trying to choose my words carefully.

Sherlock shakes his head, briefly.

'And am I a usual guest at your Mind...?'

'..."Palace". Mind Palace, John. You've used its given name before.'

'Doesn't look much like a palace to me', I mutter, grumpy from my state of confusion. 'I always thought it would be more grandiose.'

'Golden chandeliers, wall mirrors, baroque trimmings?' Sherlock guesses, rolling his eyes at me.

'Well, when you put it like that, it sounds silly, yeah. But I didn't think it'd look like Baker Street. I mean, for that, you have the real deal.'

Sherlock smirks, that caring smirk of when I said something clever. 'Granted, it's not all of it the same, John. There's more to it.'

'It's nice, really nice.'

He looks surprised and pleased; I guess his Mind Palace John never really complimented the place before. I'd say it was rude and uptight, but then again his usual Mind Palace John came with the furniture. He's somewhat a reflex of Sherlock, based on my basic traits, I'd guess. And Sherlock loves this place, obviously, but Sherlock can be really hard on himself.

'Is your Mind Palace... big?'

'It's the size I choose it to be, John', he tells me, not understanding my question. 'I can add rooms or entire wings if I see fit.'

'And where the other John goes to, when he's not on call?'

Sherlock looks baffled. 'I don't know. Away?' he guesses, tentatively.

I go past my friend and do a beeline for that armchair, after all. After sitting down gratefully on the upholstered seat I reorganise my thoughts.

I don't get what I'm doing _here_ , or exactly what is _here_ , but I recognise one thing I can do. One task that I can accomplish, one job that I would not shy away from.

'You said you needed my help, Sherlock? Well, go on, tell me about it', I ask of him, looking up, expectantly.

He smiles, a genuine smile, as one would on a long awaited return home.

I can help Sherlock. That's what I do. I can be John Watson, even if I'm kidnapped inside my friend's Mind Palace.

 _ **.**_

 _ **maybeTBC**_


	51. Chapter 51

_A/N:_ _Still odd._ _ **Part two**_ _. More to come. Still not British, a writer, or imaginary._ _-csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

'Okay, John, you've got questions... You know, I brought you here to be of some use, it's really selfish of you to want all the attention on you, on account of your menial metaphysical doubts. Am I really here, why am I here, what's the meaning of life...' he mocks, tense. 'Why do you always have to complicate things? Facts, data, reproducible evidence are what we need.'

I shake my head; _don't know_. 'I'm the real John. Been telling you that all along. I'm not your imaginary Mind Palace friend.'

'Why do you keep saying that? Is it a clue? Did I reason so fast that I cannot retrace my steps and my mind is tricking me by falsifying my imagination?'

'Sherlock, please. I'm real. I don't know how come I'm here.'

'Oh, please, John! This location does not exist in the real world, that would make me the imaginary one.'

My friend will not accept to be some second class copy of himself.

'Sherlock, what do you think is going on?'

He looks worried now. He rummages his big mind for a few seconds before collecting something from his dressing gown's pocket. A candle. Hmm. Odd thing to have there.

He notices my frown. 'Yes, John, they are _magic pockets_ ', he mimics my voice at those two words. 'I can have magic pockets if I like, I'm inside my head and I've seen candles before, therefore it's particularly easy to summon one to my liking and retrieve it from somewhere convenient.'

'Knock yourself out', I say, tired.

He takes the candle to the lit fireplace to set it alight. I wonder why not just whisk matches out of his magical dressing gown.

I wonder if it also works for me. I close my eyes and take a hand to my jeans' pocket. No, just lint, lining the pocket from the inside.

Sherlock holds the lit candle in front of him like a magician. He takes an outstretched finger to the flame.

'What are you doing, you'll burn yourself!'

Immediately he recoils with a sharp intake of breath.

'Told you, you idiot! What was that for?'

'Asserting whether I am, in fact, real. I seem to be. I can feel pain, quite distinctively.'

'Go imagine some cold water running over the burn to cool the area, you idiot! Keep it going till I tell you you can stop!'

He shakes his head. 'Your turn, John.' I hesitate. 'Come on, John, I don't believe you'll feel a thing.'

I outstretch a finger and go nearer and nearer.

'Ouch! Damn it! You said I wouldn't feel it!' I rub the sore fingertip, red and shiny. 'Well, this is not imaginary at all!' I protest.

'Nor is mine, John.'

We stand there, dumbstruck, looking at each other's fingers. One of us needs to be bluffing, and I can feel my skin tingling painfully at the pace of my fast heart beats.

'Are we both dead?' I ask, in a whisper.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'You have an unusual fixation with death, John... I chose my blogger well', he adds with a confident smile. 'Come on, let's get some cold water running on our burns, whilst I try to figure this out.'

 _ **.**_

'The case', Sherlock starts, pacing around in the familiar living room. ' _The_ case. I have a feeling, John. This is going to be one of those you'll want to blog about', he says, proudly. From his dressing gown's pocket (must have been tailored at the same place Mary Poppins got her travelling bag from), Sherlock whisks a notebook and pen, much like my regular ones.

I know Sherlock is half using me to report his glory, half trying to distract me from my fear of being dead, but at this time I just feel touched he knows my preference in notebooks – the ones he so often mocks because he's got this supposed eidetic memory; which is environment friendly.

'Ta, Sherlock, it's just what I needed.' _There. John Watson can be polite even in the afterlife._

Sherlock huffs. 'I keep telling you; you're not dead. If you build up expectations for a set result of events, you are bound to be in great shock when confronted with reality.'

I frown. 'I thought you were sure I was a figment of your imagination, Sherlock.'

He shrugs. 'Right now it seems that somehow our consciousnesses have intermingled. Which shouldn't be possible.' He smirks. ' _Fascinating!_ '

'No offense, mate, I want my own consciousness back', I ask, grimly.

He rolls his eyes. 'You obviously hold no secrets left from me, John. And I am a master in setting containment areas in my Mind Palace, so you'll get nothing from me. There's hardly need for your Victorian sensitivities.'

I glare at him. 'You were nicer when I came in', I mumble. He looks fleetingly lost at that. It's as if he was nicer when I'm just an imaginary friend under his command, but he feels he needs to constantly baffle, confuse and impress the real life me.

 _Touché, Sherlock. I can read you too._

'The case', he settles on. 'A man died in an empty room, locked from the inside. The door was sturdy, so much so that the family members couldn't open it by force. Those would be an old lady, a male distant relative visiting the house and two adolescents. The victim was saddled with debts and a chronic illness, he really wasn't going to last long anyway. Does that help, John?' He waits for an answer, I'm momentarily confused. He particularises: 'That the victim would have died anyway. You always get this sad look in your eyes when you first spot a dead body. Does it help if he didn't have long to live? Because, honestly John, we are all perishable creatures anyway.'

I shake my head quietly. 'It helps if he had time to make amends, and tell his loved ones he was proud of them and he loved them. Yes, it helps, Sherlock.'

He seems troubled. 'Are you still worrying you are dead? You can be quite stubborn when you put your mind to something.'

'It's still in the back of my mind', I admit.

'You wouldn't need to make amends, John', he says, loftily, as he takes up his violin again. Perhaps just to hold something in his jittery hands.

I smile. _He's trying to be nice again._ 'Are you going to play now?' He nods, Yes. 'Why, Sherlock?'

'Because your heart rate has increased significantly, and you are looking rather pale. The violin usually sooths you.'

I blink. He's right. _I don't feel so good._

 _What–?_

Sudden cracks flutter down across the wallpapered walls of Baker Street's living room's carbon copy, branching out through the plaster and paper. Even the bookshelves shake under what feels like a mini earthquake. Sherlock plays on, unfazed, as the incandescent logs in the fireplace roll over, crumbling the earlier neat pile. Something smashes in the kitchen, sounds like glass shattered on the floor. Mrs Hudson won't like it.

'Focus on me now, John', Sherlock's voice rumbles deep, sharp and metallic, never stopping that melodic lifeline. I breathe deeply and swallow dry to overcome the sudden nausea. Slowly, the Mind Palace seizure ceases, and at the same time I start feeling better, stronger.

Sherlock hums approvingly as he watches carefully my recovery. At the same time my multitalented friend keeps playing soothing melodies on his violin. I don't tell him they still sound a bit weird, as if they had an echo to them, for a few more minutes. In fact, I don't tell him much at all. Sherlock plays on, inspiring tranquility and homeliness in me. Healing the shock.

The cracks on Baker Street's walls remain like scars, a tangible record of Sherlock's Mind Palace seizure.

I huff out, realising I've been holding my breath for a while now. Sherlock finally tugs a little smile to his lips and lowers the violin.

'Yes', he says immediately as if nothing had happened since, 'the Copenhagen police force's interpretation was quite straightforward, I'm afraid. If a man dies alone in a room, with no weapons and no outward physical signs of violence, he must have suffered some syncope. They believed the autopsy would reveal its mechanisms at a later time, and so they recorded the case under the simple procedures of death due to natural causes. They never held the suspects for interrogation, only took statements. Some pictures of the room were taken, but the site was subsequently released to the family as soon as the corpse was taken away.'

I blink, forcing myself to focus on the case Sherlock is presenting, and not my fears or the Mind Palace's apparent displeasure in having me present. It feels like the Mind Palace was trying to regurgitate me out of here.

Apparently the Mind Palace does not approve of my secret decision to tidy up the place.

'Did you not feel that? The whole place was shaking! Is your Mind Palace located atop a tectonic plates fault line? What on earth was that?'

Sherlock's eyes dim. 'I don't know. I suppose I should go back out and check, but there were no alarms going off. I've got protocols in place to pluck me from my Mind Palace on case of real necessity.' Looking me over, he assures me: 'We are safe in here.'

'Has something like this ever occurred before?'

'No, John.'

'Then you better check it, no?'

He refuses summarily. 'Not leaving you yet', he says firmly. _Not leaving me alone while I'm lost in his Mind,_ he means. He will not resurface for the same reason he will not dismiss me from his presence. We don't know what lies out there and we need to cover each other's backs.

 _ **.TBC**_


	52. Chapter 52

_A/N:_ _Always odd._ _ **Part three**_ _. More to come. Still not British, a writer, or a quantum physicist. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

I decide to focus on the case for now. It's something tangible, it's the reason Sherlock called me over.

'Okay, I get it, Sherlock. Cold case, you suspect something more to it than "natural causes", which, by the way, is a very lazy cause of death.'

'Agreed', my friend's deep voice rumbles between us.

'And you jumped on the case at once. What did the Danish police think of your interference?'

He gestures on the air, aggravated. 'Does it matter? They recognised my name, they were polite – even you would think that, John! – but they assured me it was an open and shut case.'

'You didn't back down.' I just know.

'Of course not! My brother grudgingly mediated the diplomatic efforts and finally they sent over the transcripts of the interviews and the officers' reports.'

'I see. And, did you figure out how the man died? Who could have done it?'

Sherlock shakes his head, almost sorrowful. 'Hence my wander in my Mind Palace, and my summoning of my friend and blogger, to discuss the details of the case. Particularly pressing given that The Real You had gone to work.'

I nod, thoughtfully. Sounds legit, but it doesn't explain the sudden sentience of the said friend, or Sherlock's lack of worry in his crumbling Palace episode. As to my small panic attack, well, I guess I've got enough history to cover that.

Sherlock sighs, and takes a seat in his own armchair, facing me, making himself ws homely in his Mind Palace as in the real flat. He plucks a tensed string in his beloved violin with some gentleness.

'And what is that for?' I get suspicious. I'm feeling fine. Quickly I eye the walls but nothing is crumbling this time around. In fact, the flat is still and peaceful.

Sherlock shrugs. 'Just hoping you don't psych yourself out, John. Music usually sooths your mind.'

'Some of us don't have Mind Palaces', I point out sharply.

He smiles softly. 'You are always welcome in mine.'

 _Thanks, Sherlock._ I have realised that despite all the weirdness of this situation I feel safe here, I feel at home. Any incarnation of Baker Street seems to have that effect on me. And judging by Sherlock's choice of decorating in his modest Palace, so does my friend.

If I had to be lost in some parallel universe delusion, I'm glad I'm here, with Sherlock.

'Mi casa es tu casa?' I use the Spanish expression. Literally, "my house is your house".

He nods. Then he corrects, because he's Sherlock and he needs to have the last word: 'Mi palacio es tu palacio.'

 _"My palace is your palace."_

 _ **.**_

'So, have you made up your mind, John, about what is going on?'

I frown, unsure.

'We are Schrödinger's cat, Sherlock. Both dead and alive till proven one thing or the other', I state, gloomily.

'Never been a cat before', he comments, absentmindedly.

'Well, actually–' I start. He interrupts me, rudely:

'You are not someone's cat, John. Stop panicking.'

I blink, confused. Looks to me like Sherlock is the one panicking under the surface, just a little bit. Out of friendship he's keeping it together to help me, further along in the panicking.

If I must be a theoretical zombie feline, I'm glad Sherlock could join me.

 _ **.**_

'The autopsy showed no signs of foul play, John. I can retrieve it for you to have a look', Sherlock volunteers.

With a minor lingering headache from the whole Crumbling Mind Palace incident, I shake my head briefly. 'Later. I'll take your word for it.'

'So if it wasn't an illness or sudden catastrophic organ failure, it must have been a murder.'

'Or a suicide', I add, massaging my forehead.

'Which leads us to a search for the lethal weapon used.'

I nod, tiredly. 'What was there in the room?'

Sherlock smirks for no apparent reason, other than enjoying our case solving spree. 'Shall we have a look?' he entices.

'Do you have a list?' I don't follow.

'Better, I've got the whole crime scene in my head', he beams at me.

 _This is Sherlock, I shouldn't be surprised._

I get up to follow my friend out of this Baker Street's copy and back to the long, spacious and austere corridor with lots of closed doors. Just as we start the corridor, Sherlock takes a hand to my arm, grasping at it lightly, as if to keep my whereabouts under check. Maybe he thinks I'll get lost in my friend's big head. Maybe he wants to ensure I don't go wandering off and open doors he'd rather have shut.

'If we're both our true selves and we're both here, how did our perceptions get so entangled, Sherlock?'

He shakes his head, he has no answer to give me.

'And how come we didn't end up in my mind, instead? I mean, if it was all the same, your place or mine...'

Sherlock scowls. 'Your mind is too small. Your mind is an overhead compartment, mine is the entire airport. I'd say we are more comfortable here.'

'You can't know that for sure', I call his bluff.

He nods, giving in slightly. 'Maybe you just don't want me in your head, John. Whereas I already had a habit of summoning you in times of need.'

'Yeah, about that, can you _magic pockets_ your way into a room upgrade? That dingy room is depressing.'

He lifts an amused eyebrow.

'In my defence, you have never complained before.'

'Yeah, well, you know. Just in case I'm stuck in here.'

'Why would you be a prisoner here, John?' he asks, a tinge of hurt in his voice.

Well, he read right through that one, so much for tact. John Watson has experience with being a POW, from his time in a foreign war. And right now, John Watson doesn't know how he got here, and how to escape from here. John Watson might be dead as he thinks this, though. Which would make the said escape pointless. And make this place some sort of limbo, not quite the afterlife yet, just its waiting room. And that would make John Watson desolate. He's got too much life inside him yet, and one consulting detective, much too prone to danger, to protect.

'John.'

Just as I assume Sherlock is going to have another go at me for my depressing thoughts, he's actually pointedly ignoring them. Instead he's holding one door handle, waiting for me to say I'm ready to go in.

I have one last look down the corridor. That's when the ground below my feet shakes as a cold shiver running through the beast's core. The mind palace is still not at ease with my presence, I take it.

 _Well, right back at you!_

 _ **.**_

Looking at Sherlock, holding the door to his Mind's crime scene room, I nod my readiness. Without knowing how I got here I won't know how to leave. Even though I can't remember my day just before this reset, I'm not the only one here. Sherlock's here too. Maybe if I follow his day I'll figure out how we both got trapped here.

 _Crime scene._ In his head, from a cluttered flat in London, Sherlock has visited a crime scene in Copenhagen, where a sad, dying man met his end.

Let me see what Sherlock saw. Let me take advantage of Sherlock's incredible mind to help him solve the case. I may learn something about his amazing thought processes, or in the least I'll get a chance to glimpse them from a privileged point of view.

Inside, the room is bathed with a cold crisp morning light, from two tall windows with full length curtains. Between them is a classic heavy mahogany desk with a dead man crumpled over the top, leaning over from his classic leather chair. The chair is angled towards the table as if the man had been working undisturbed when he slumped forward. There are some papers under him, in what is mostly a very tidy desktop. A lamp, a computer, an empty whiskey glass (just one, again: no guests), some ornaments of scientific inspiration.

I lean towards the body and, by habit, I look for a pulse over the jugular. His skin is cold, the lips are blue, and the eyes have that glazed over appearance of dead fish. It really was a no-brainer, but I was compelled to check for a pulse anyway.

'I wish you'd pay attention, John', Sherlock drawls as he notices what I did. I turn to my friend, who has just materialised himself by my side, he again has that fond half smile of when I'm being clever. 'However, I applaud your eagerness to review every fact of this case', he adds, fiddling with a Newton's cradle on the desk, setting the aligned metal balls into action.

Well, I messed with the crime scene first, I suppose. I guess this is not a hands-off museum's exhibit.

Sherlock comes off from the desktop he was leaning on and grabs the dead man's hand to study his fingers. That's an old favourite of Sherlock, especially when their left thumbs define them as aircraft pilots, which is extremely rare.

I look around us. Classic looking library, from a well-off man, not overbearing though. A painting of the man himself behind the desk, he looks serious and gaunt, despite the painter's best efforts. Depicted alone, so I guess Sherlock was right. He was a lonely man with no close family ties.

I stop short by the bookshelves lined wall that broke my concentration at once. On one of the lower shelves is a set of children's books. My Danish language skills are non-existent, but I recognise some of the titles. Children's books, where a child can reach them, before sitting on the centrepiece rug and read away while the older man works at his desk.

Sherlock mentioned two adolescents? Wonder what their ages are. I can almost hear Sherlock telling me: _it's never twins, John!_

I'm smirking as I reach over to one of the books, Harry's favourite when we were kids. I try to drag the book off the shelf but it's stuck. _What–?_

'John, what are you doing?' Sherlock asks like he's about to tell me off, he was checking some scuff marks on the desk's surface.

'Checking out a book. How come this guy had fake book binds in the shelves?' I look around, it's a very amateurish stage production now I come to think of it. What else is pure fabrication in this play?

'They are only fake in my Mind Palace, John. It's there because it was evident in the crime scene photos, but I don't think I've ever read that book, so of course you cannot see inside the cover!'

I scowl. 'And the drawers will be empty', I gather.

'Yes, of course. Can't see inside in a picture, can I?'

I sigh. 'And why not fill in the details?' I ask, knowing it's hopeless.

He gets affronted. 'I need to keep my scientific decorum, John. I will not make things up in a crime scene, it would contaminate it!'

'Anderson is not around', I shrug, 'and you are the one with the magic pockets.' I stand tall, with my arms crossed on front of me.

Sherlock squints. 'You do understand they don't have to be pockets?'

'Yes, of course. Could be a book from a shelf, for instance.'

Sherlock glances at the books. 'I brought you here to study the crime scene, John.'

'That's what I'm doing', I edge him on. _Come on, Sherlock..._

'The body is way over here!' he points at it, like I could have missed it. I shrug. Sherlock classifies: 'You've got a very disorganised mind, John.'

'A certain genius git keeps telling me that, but he also keeps missing the point.'

Sherlock's expression releases into a young, curious one. 'What am I missing?'

'I'm not about to make this easy on you. Sherlock, I want to have a look at that book.'

Sherlock pretends to be put off, as he waves his hand in the air. 'Fine, it's a real book now, John.'

I thank him and lean over to pick it up at once. Sherlock comes closer, quietly, as I open the book randomly.

'What is it, John?' he asks me, genuinely curious.

'How come I'm stuck in your mind and I can read the book's story? You don't know this book, Sherlock. You probably grew up reading quantum physics!'

'Don't idolise me, John. I was a pre-teenager by that time.'

I smile. Always the incredible genius.

Pointing at the book in my hands I explain: 'Sherlock, this is your mind, your rules, your magical conjuring of objects. Everything around us is in your mind, right?'

'Been telling you that all along.'

'But your Mind Palace crumbled when I was unwell, and now is showing us something only I know, something that is in my mind's repository, get it?'

He leans over my shoulder and reads a few lines. 'The cat has magical boots and a sword? What sort of a children's story is this, promoting animal warfare?'

'A whimsical one, Sherlock, never mind that. I just want to know–'

My friend the detective rolls his eyes and walks away. 'There's only one dead person in the room, John, and he's slumped over his desk. I keep telling you that you are not dead.'

No matter how many times Sherlock repeats himself, I still feel like Schrödinger's expectant cat, waiting for the end of the experiment, where he'll find out if he's theoretically alive or not, outside the box.

 _ **.TBC**_


	53. Chapter 53

_A/N:_ _Just odd._ _ **Part four**_ _. Still not British, a writer, or Schrödinger's cat._ _-csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

For a moment, Sherlock relents. 'You believe I'm in your head, John?'

I shudder, tiredly, as I lean back against the book shelves. 'I guess you must be, Sherlock. Although I don't quite understand how come I'm so powerless and you get to have _magic pockets_. If it's my dream, why can't I have them too?'

Sherlock smirks. 'Jealousy is unbecoming on you, John.' Then, looking away, he refutes: 'How about the candle burn? I felt it too. My fingertip is still sore.'

I look him over under set brows. 'I'm a doctor, I know what fire will do to your skin. You _say_ it hurts, but I can't feel yours, now can I?'

Sherlock faces me with a definite pout in his lower lip. 'You are a lousy doctor, John, if you think I'm dreaming up this burn', he chews the words, resentfully.

My exasperation bubbles over. 'Well, we can't both be the real ones! One of us is but an imaginary friend keeping the other company!'

'Do you really believe that?' Sherlock asks me shortly. Expressionless all of a sudden as only my manipulative friend can be.

I groan, exhausted. 'I don't know, Sherlock, not anymore. I don't know much anymore.'

The genius decides to take the high road, as he turns away from me. 'I believe in you, John, I'll always believe in you', he tells me. 'No matter what. So if you say you're real, than you are real.'

I gulp drily. 'I wonder how many mental patients heard that one from their primary hallucinations...'

Sherlock briskly halts, then deflates. 'Is that what's bothering you?' he asks, turning around. 'John...' he says my name, full of understanding and care.

'Never mind, Sherlock. Let's just solve the case. That's what we do best anyway.'

 _ **.**_

'The old lady was the housekeeper?' I take a guess, focusing on Sherlock's case.

'Yes, John.'

'What's her name?'

'Why?'

'Because she's a suspect, I want to call her by name.'

There are instant knocks on the door. We both turn. An older woman in a housekeeper's outfit opens the door. Sherlock smirks. I glance at him, confused. He shrugs. 'You wanted to call her, but I don't recall such useless details like a name, John!' He sends her away with as brief shake of the head. She retreats politely. 'We shall call her "Mrs Hudson", John.'

'No!' I'm instantly sure. Enough with the madness. Mrs Hudson won't be a suspect in our case. She should, however, be paid a second rent now her flat is being used on a different plain of consciousness. 'How about "Mrs White", like in the board game? The victim is "Professor Plum", the visiting relative is "Coronel Mustard" and the twins–'

'How do you know they are twins, John? I didn't tell you that.'

I frown at Sherlock's intensity. _He thinks he's onto something._

'I don't know, I guessed?'

'No', he smiles, frantic. 'You _knew_.' Then he breaks his smile. 'But how did you know, John? I must have told you, but I haven't seen you since morning...'

 _I get it._ I take my hand to my jeans pocket. No magic pockets in my jeans, but I got my tricks.

Looking down on my phone some fuzzy memory returns to me. 'You phoned me, Sherlock. While I was on the underground. The call was breaking up, but I got the gist. Dead guy, locked room, four suspects that all could have done it, yet–'

Sherlock takes a seat over the dead man's desk, a thoughtful expression in his face, dreamy even.

'Huh, Sherlock?' I pointedly look at the body next to Sherlock.

Sherlock looks down on the body. 'Oh, he doesn't mind, I'm sure.'

I blink. 'Well, I do! It's not proper, you know?'

He snaps his fingers, the dead body vanishes. I lean a bit to see if the bloody stains on the chair are gone too. _Best stain remover in the market, huh?_

'Cool, does that work on your brother?' I smirk.

'I live in hope', he smirks back.

'The twins can be "Miss Scarlett" and "Miss Peacock" for the purposes of this exercise.' Sherlock nods his approval, a bit intrigued, as he restarts those little spheres in the Newton's cradle by his side.

Modest desk, uncluttered, one single piece of decor. 'That', I point at it, 'was a gift, I can see an inscription in the base. I don't know what it says because it's in a language I don't speak. Can you translate it?'

He shrugs, quiet. 'Couldn't read it from the crime scene photos. Not enough pixels, even with the magnifying lenses.'

'And you're sitting on top of pages and pages of complicated formulae. Mathematics? No, the gift points at a background in physics.'

'Good, John', Sherlock nods, still quiet. 'We're here to solve a murder, John.' He jumps down on the floor and walks to the windows with the long curtains drawn to the sides. Not balanced, though. One set is almost entirely open wide, and the other is nearly drawn together.

'Footprints', I mutter, kneeling on the rug where the light is cast. 'You and I have been walking around a lot, it's going to be hard to tell ours apart from any others. And, of course, we don't know if Mrs White, the housekeeper, has hoovered the carpet today. There could be dirt on that carpet from ages ago!'

Sherlock shakes his head in conviction. 'The room's too neat, no dust.'

I send him an evil eye. 'Saw that on the crime scene pictures, did you?'

He huffs. 'Fine, _I asked!_ It's no fun to do the boring detective work, John. I much rather pretend it's all about walking into a room and pointing victoriously at the culprit.'

I start giggling, slowly. _He's right._ I've helped him before in the boring part of his work. 'Sherlock, it doesn't make you any less of a genius if you have to question the witnesses.'

He hesitates slightly, checking if I'm not pulling him on. 'Really?'

'Really. Cross my heart, scouts' word.' I smile at the rarity of Sherlock's insecurity. 'Go on, what about the footprints?'

He looks shy all of a sudden, just fleetingly, though. 'There were some footprints on the carpet, from the unlocked window to the desk, then out the door.'

'Easy case, then. Except for the twins, I guess they'll wear the same size shoes, it's just going to be about matching the shoe size to the killer's footprints...'

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. 'John.'

'What did I miss?' I ask, confused. The consulting detective pushes aside the open curtain with a hooked finger and a theatrical performance. I look on. A bird flutters by the window. We're up high with the birds. Seventh or eighth floor, at least. I finally get it. 'No one came in through the window, they couldn't have. So what were they doing? Hiding behind the curtain? Why? Waiting for Professor Plum to die?'

'Who?' Sherlock is genuinely lost. I'm reminded of how hard it is to play board games with Sherlock.

'The dead man', I remind him.

'Possibly. Or they had another reason to hide in his library.' Sherlock looks on at the desk. I follow his gaze.

'Numbers.' My friend hums approvingly, by my side. 'The killer thought the professor was balancing his accounts. Or waiting for that? No, not asking for money, or blackmailing the professor, the killer wouldn't feel the need to hide, being in a position of power over him. The killer wanted to see if there would be an inheritance – the old relative!'

Sherlock shakes his head. 'The dead man was dying, remember? Your Coronel Mustard could have waited.'

 _Nice timing to remember the character's name._

'I guess...' I admit defeat, tiredly.

'John? _...John!'_

I take a hasted seat behind the desk, where the dead man sat before, crumbling apart with a piercing headache. The pain brings tears to my eyes, and I'm sweaty, and sound is oddly off tune. Violin music impossibly drifts on the background like a degraded echo. But Sherlock never leaves me. Immediately I feel cold gentle fingers prying mine away as my worried friend tries to have a look at my face. The morning light floods in my refuge, nauseating me. Then – I knew it was coming! – the library starts to shake from the ground up.

At least fake books don't fall off shelves, I suppose. The Newton's cradle swings again, the papers on the desk scatter onto the floor as Sherlock holds me tighter, and the light fixture hanging from the ceiling suddenly comes loose and crashes onto the centre of the rug with glass shattering.

'Breathe in, breathe out, John.'

'What is happening, what does all this mean?'

Sherlock answers reverentially: 'It means we're running out of time, John.'

 _ **.TBC**_


	54. Chapter 54

_A/N:_ _A different kind of odd._ _ **Part five**_ _. A bit long. Should be one more._ _-csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

The world's greatest consulting detective seems determined to make me have all the work to solve the case. In a foreign library where the corpse is absent – the autopsy didn't determine the cause of death anyway – and by the remains of an expensive glass and metal light fixture collapsed into shards on the central carpet, Sherlock insists the case that seems to have pulled us together in his Mind Palace needs solving.

Possibly he's just trying to distract me from my periodic syncopes that cause his Mind Palace to crumble further, cracks spreading in every division we see.

In my mind, I've associated solving the case with the end of my pilgrimage into Sherlock's mind. One can only hope. I no longer feel like a prisoner, and I truly enjoy having my faithful friend by my side, but this is not where I belong, and I must try to find my way back.

I don't know in-depth about my friend's innovative methods, but I've read a few crime novels, so I can have a go at being a detective too. I've always admired Sherlock's work, and I'd love to have a chance to emulate him. And if our combined hallucination's imaginary space is not safe ground to do just that, then I'll never have a better chance.

'Can I question the suspects?' I ask the detective in charge.

He rolls his eyes. 'It's really boring, are you sure?'

I nod, _Yes_. He shrugs, _Fine_.

'Mrs White, please.'

 _ **.**_

The same old lady in a housekeeper's apron comes back. Sherlock is courteous, but distant, as she enters the library. I glance at my friend and hasten to welcome the woman in, introducing ourselves to her. Sherlock seats on top of the desk again and rolls his eyes at me, while munching on some biscuits he's sneaking out, one by one, from his magic pockets. 'What?' he protests against my stern, advisory look, through a mouth full.

'Manners, Sherlock!'

'Who cares, John? This is not the real world!' he protests with his mouth full.

My turn to roll my eyes. _The git's got a point._ That should speed up things along nicely.

'Huh...' There's no chair to offer the housekeeper, I notice. Sherlock motions to offer the dead man's chair but freezes as he sees my warning look.

'But it's clean now, John!'

I sigh. Yeah, sure, I guess it will have to do. The older lady seats without reacting to the latest owner of the piece of furniture.

'I brought him tea', Mrs White says, under Sherlock's principles of economic speech. She seems to know what she should tell us and proceeds with hardly any prompt. 'It could have been poisoned with something that didn't show on the autopsy, I suppose, but I didn't put it there, and the tea hardly got out of my sight. Oh, yes, Coronel Mustard also drank tea from the same pot, the nasty man, and he didn't suffer any disturbance.'

I glance quickly at the emotional-eating detective. _Imaginary people don't require nourishment to sustain their bodies._ I wonder how many biscuits away he is from sending Mrs White out the door for being tedious.

'What can you tell us about the professor?'

She smiles sadly, removing a handkerchief from her apron's pocket and twisting it in her hands. 'I liked the professor, he was a quiet man, pondered and civil. Recently retired, as his health has been declining a lot. I knew something was wrong with him, but I didn't ask. I had even started looking for my next job placement.' She looks at me directly. 'Look here, doctor Watson, I didn't need to kill him. I could have quit my job.'

Sherlock brushes away some crumbs from his shirt, distracted. Mrs White gets another handkerchief from her pocket and hands it to Sherlock, helpfully.

'Who found the body?'

'Oh, I did, doctor Watson. Quite a shock, it was. He was pale as death, when I came to collect the tea tray. I don't know how long he had been like that, you know. I heard no commotion, nothing!' She gets out yet another handkerchief from her pocket and dabs under her moist eyes. I glance, not without some envy, at her magic pockets, she's got them too. Like a magician's trick, with a never ending string of handkerchiefs.

Sherlock thanks her and she gets up to leave. As she crosses the threshold, a funny looking, moustached man comes in. Middle aged or older, boastful and loud.

'Coronel Mustard', he introduces himself. 'Guess you're here to solve the case. About time, eh?'

'Why were you around, Coronel?'

He smiles coldly like a man who likes to keep his secrets. 'I was visiting my cousin, twice removed.'

'You were invited?'

'No, I showed up on my own', he says, raising his voice, already impatient.

'Hard up on cash', Sherlock deduces frontally, 'and has a gambling addiction.'

'Yes, that's true, but it's possible that I'm an adrenaline addict.'

I turn sharply on Sherlock and warn him; 'Don't put words in his mouth, or we won't solve this.'

My friend shrugs, 'It's boring, John!'

'Well, if you change their testimonies we won't get to the culprit, will we?'

Sherlock shrugs again. 'He's not a coronel, so who cares? That was just the name you picked for him.' He looks the man over and starts deducing. 'High blood pressure, on a cocktail of medications for hypertension. Divorced. Weekend gardner, never managed to grow prized azaleas quite like his neighbour's, possibly because he's using the wrong compost, iron deficient for that plant's needs. Resentfully he's taken to having a dog in the hope that the dog can be taught to destroy the neighbour's garden and prized azaleas. He dislikes the animal because the dog has chewed on several of his trousers' cuffs. There are marking in his trousers right now. The dog has been left behind unattended as the man travelled to get money from his cousin – twice removed – and I have already called the Danish equivalent of the RSPCA to have the dog rescued and the man fined.'

I blink. Sherlock's way of conducting witnesses interviews is much faster.

He continues, energised. 'The professor never gave the coronel any money, because he has set most of his money aside to his twin nieces, on their eighteenth birthday, fast approaching. The coronel was called by the housekeeper, agreed the professor was dead, tried CPR just in case – it was hopeless by that time, and he didn't perform CPR correctly, bruising the corpse in a way that could have concealed marks discernable at the autopsy – and, finally, he called the police. Now, can we send the man away, John?'

I nod, speechless. Coronel Mustard doesn't leave the chair. He disappears into thin smoke.

The twins – Scarlett and Peacock – come in next. One dressed in red, and the other in teal coloured clothes. Young, modern, pretty, looking old and worn for their age. I glance at the detective, but he's got winded, or something, for he lets me start first.

'Hello. Sorry to hear about your uncle.'

'That's alright', the taller one says. 'We hardly knew him. We came for a night over, on account of a concert nearby, by our favourite band. We want to meet the lead vocalist backstage.'

'Oh, you have a pass?' I ask, politely.

'No, but we'll sneak in. We always get what we want. Like coming here. Uncle Plum was against it, but we came anyway.'

The other one agrees: 'I guess having an uncle in Copenhagen was useful... Hey, are we still going to make it to the concert? Like, are you even real cops? Can you keep us here? Wanna come with us to the concert? Your friend is kind of cute...'

I glance at my friend, he's not fazed at all by their straightforwardness.

'He's _kind of_ married to his work', I say.

'About Uncle Plum, we welcome any inheritance', Scarlett says. 'We didn't know we were about to be rich. He never told us. Kind of freaky, huh?'

'Did you see your uncle at all the day he died?'

'Kind of.' She shrugs. 'I came to the library to see if I could sneak some alcohol from his desk drawer. He always had some alcohol there. I hid behind the curtain when he came in on me. He sat at the desk, then fell forward, not breathing at all. I went out without saying anything because the police might think I did it.'

'I see', I say, taken back. _Kind of._

The other twin reports: 'I had sneaked money out of the coronel's jacket already, so we'd be ready for the concert.'

 _I think I'm onto something here._ I ask, because this is a game in Sherlock's Mind Palace, I can just guess out the answer to the murder mystery. 'Could you have sneaked some of the coronel's hypertension tablets? Nitro-glycerine tablets could kill a healthy dying man. That's how he died. It was Miss Scarlett, in the library, with, hmm, the nitro-glycerine tablets.' I look over to Sherlock, victoriously.

Sherlock shakes his head. 'Not picked up in the autopsy, John. Anyway, with a few more questions you would have known that earlier Coronel Mustard caught Miss Scarlett stealing and tried to come over and kiss her, thinking that she would have to let him so he'd keep quiet because she'd not risk losing the money from her inheritance, as the Professor was a man of strict morals. She pushed him off and hit him repeatedly, teaching him not to touch her. The coronel was almost the victim currently in the morgue, not the professor. They alibi each other for a mysterious poison, Miss Scarlett and Coronel Mustard. The other twin, Miss Peacock, walked in on them. That makes three alibis. The housekeeper, Mrs White, was gossiping with the neighbour. That makes it four alibis!'

I send the twins away with a hand gesture. They leave arguing among themselves who's going to catch the lead vocalist's eye first.

Guess I lost the game, blurting out the wrong solution. It's hard work, this detective business. _What now?_

'The victim did it?' I guess, not overly serious.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Why do we need rules?'

'We'd still need to know how it happened, though', I notice. Guess I get another chance, and the game's not over yet. 'Aneurysm? Suicide? What?'

The library door creeks open, unsolicited. A small cat comes into the room, sinuous and independent, ignoring our presence. It reminds me of another cat, a metaphorical cat. _Are we dead or alive?_

Immediately, as if following my existential doubts, the palace starts shaking again. The tremor starts at ground level and builds up in height and strength, to a small earthquake. Bits of wallpaper float by, peeled off from the walls in strips and chunks. Sherlock edges closer to me as the destruction proceeds around us and debris starts collapsing around us.

As it finally stops, I'm concerned about the daylight amount I can discern outside the windows, perhaps its getting stormier, for it has started to dusk.

'Got anymore pocket candles, Sherlock?' I ask. With no ceiling light and just a small lamp at the lonely desk, we'll soon struggle to look for clues.

Sherlock seems happy to oblige, and I pick up an ornamental candlestick from the room. Then I freeze, holding the candlestick in my hand. _It's like in the game. Dagger, candlestick, revolver, rope, pipe or spanner?_

'John, what is it?'

'The rules are broken', I mutter. Not realising fully how enigmatic I sounded at first.

We watch the cat not minding us at all, nor the simile of chaos in the room. He is small and playful, and finds something underneath the desk – where Sherlock supposedly couldn't see from the pictures' angles. We hear a metallic noise of something rolling on the ground under the desk.

'Sherlock?' I call my friend, as he's coaxing the little cat to come out from under the desk, gently.

'Do you also require knowing the feline's name, John?' Sherlock teases me, diverting my attention from the cold, distant detective that is on all fours right now to get the attention of a little, cute fur ball. He's got it wrong. I'm hardly paying attention. Little Schrödinger's cat there may have just solved the case...

 _ **.**_

'Oh', I say, quite simply.

Sherlock smirks. 'Do you know the answer, John?' he presses.

'Yes.' I nod, stunned. 'I think I know the answer, Sherlock. So, how come we got stuck in here? What does your Mind Palace have to do with the case?'

He doesn't falter in his confident, borderline proud, smile. 'You came over to Baker Street, John. I had decided we should go to Copenhagen. I bought plain tickets. You complained. I persuaded you. You packed a bag full of clothes and toiletries.'

'And you didn't?' He didn't again try to send me on with a webcam link to check the scene without him, claiming it was under a Seven, did he?

'I packed a bag too', he assures. 'It had science equipment and some carefully wrapped and labelled chemicals and instruments. You said I didn't need methylene blue dye or my microscope. I asked if Molly could join us then, and do the forensic work.'

I blink, _really?_

'You got cranky, possibly jealous. Made me leave behind part of my bag because you said I would go through the check-in with the lot. There was something about looking suspicious going through an airport with a set of different sixed scalpels. You made sure I took shirts and socks – that don't colour coordinate with each other by the way, but I'm sure you knew that!'

 _Probably._ Can't really remember that part. It's ...fuzzy.

'We got a cab to the airport, with the tickets ready', he completes.

My headache returns, so sharp it makes everything look filtered by vaseline smeared lenses. The light hurts my eyes and the back of my head. I take a seat on the dead man's chair.

The detective looks scared, as he comes a bit too close, as if ready to pick me up if I lose balance, or hug me till the vertigo goes away.

'Sherlock, what happened? Did we catch the flight?' I can't remember. He should have told me this already.

'No, John. We didn't make it to the airport.' He gulps drily. _This is bad._

'Sherlock...' _Tell me._

'We've been arguing all the way, even the cabbie was getting tired of hearing us, and a cabbie hears a lot. A car ran over the red lights at a crossing, flying right at us; my side. You saw we were about to be rammed sideways. I was the first to be hit, to receive the bulk of the impact. So you grabbed me with a belated yelled warning, and pulled me down, as I realised you had set yourself free of the car's seat belt to better reach me. Soldier's instinct, I imagine. You wrapped your body over mine, protecting me. I held on to you, with all my strengths, because you didn't have the seat belt and the impact was sure to project you. You wanted to save me, despite your own safety. I tried protecting you just as fiercely, but there was little I had time to do.' He looks young and guilty as he tells his side of the story, at last. He carried his secret out of guilt, but I don't think he should blame himself for the outcome of my choice. I would have done it again, and I don't regret it.

'I wanted to save your incredible mind, Sherlock', I speak at last, breaking the lingering spell of Sherlock's emotional voice. My words come out through the haze of Sherlock's violin music, inundating the library, returning twice fold as strong. 'You are my friend, Sherlock. There was not enough time to warn you, so I took it upon myself to keep you safe. Were you harmed? How bad was it for me?'

 _This is why I'm here, isn't it?_ To protect Sherlock's Mind Palace as his owner was involved in a horrible car accident.

'I don't know, John, and you don't know either', he says. He's the one being enigmatic now.

'What's the last thing you remember?' I press him on, my friend took so long already to tell me what he knows.

'I remember that you had just about solved the case on your own, John', he misunderstands me, and talks only about the time before impact. Perhaps it's out of his memory's reach too. 'We were about to catch a flight to Denmark and the case had already been solved. Really disappointing.'

I shake my head. 'But I don't solve cases, you do!'

He gets up from the desk and paces the room in wide circles, as a strange ritual around a broken lamp fixture. 'You had just solved our case, John, as I knew you would, and you were about to be hit on the head instead of me, sacrificing your brain matter and memories. It's common to have short term memory loss from around the time of the injury. You may not even remember solving the case.'

I feel bad for taking the spotlight away from my friend. That is, if I indeed solved his case. That doesn't happen often. Some days, Sherlock would even say it doesn't happen at all. 'It's alright, Sherlock. You'd soon solve it too.'

He raises his arms in the air, agitated. 'I had solved it before we met up, John, do keep up! I was giving you the chance to solve it first out loud! You had changed your whole day to help me and I couldn't bring myself to tell you it was a waste of time; there was no more case!'

 _Oh. Guess that makes sense. It was really thoughtful in a way._

'I'm sorry I yelled at you', I return.

He stops short, bitting his lower lip. 'Do you remember the cab ride?'

'Not in the slightest, but I'm quite sure I yelled. Probably used some vulgar language too, at some point.' He smirks, I probably did.

'It's alright. I'm sorry I almost made you go on a plane to solve a case I had solved already', he points out in the interest of fairness.

'It's fine. I would have enjoyed it, I'm sure.'

'John?' he calls out softly at my sudden silence. I was looking down on the little kitty.

'Sherlock... Are we both dead?'

'No, I don't think so. Dead people don't feel pain, right? Remember the candle burn?'

'Are _you_ dead?' I ask, with a cold shiver that has nothing to do with my headache.

He shakes his head. 'You said I was in your head all the time, John. That you were the real one.'

'Yeah, but you know things I couldn't have known.'

'Always, John.' He smirks.

'Oi, watch it!' _He's a hopeless git._

'Perhaps, John, you are in my head, and I really wanted to see you solve the damned case.'

I smile at the mention of solving the case. 'Yes, I think I have.'

 _ **.TBC**_


	55. Chapter 55

_A/N:_ _Simply odd._ _ **Part six**_ _and last._ _-csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

'We need to go back, to face what happened, I suppose', I gather, pondered, as if Sherlock and I had reached the end of some holiday getaway time in my friend's Mind Palace Inn.

I look over at my friend, noticing how quiet he's being.

'We don't know what is out there', I juxtapose, in the interest of fairness. 'It seems I might have been seriously hurt in the accident. And, despite all my best efforts, so might have you. Do you really not know, Sherlock? You're not hiding anything?'

He shakes his head. With an unscripted shiver his demeanour breaks, as his shoulders slump and his eyes cast down on the floor. I'm reminded that he remembers the crash, and what a horrible thing it must be to relive it.

Still I'm the only one speaking out loud, in this conjured Copenhagen library that my friend has smuggled into his mind from crime scene reports, pictures and videoconferencing interviews. 'Sherlock, why did you take so long to tell me about the crash?'

He shrugs, but his faked detachment is not as menial as he makes it out to be.

'When were you planing on telling me?' I insist.

He looks up, honest light blue eyes intense as they lock with mine.

'Only once you solved the case, John.'

 _ **.**_

Sherlock knows I won't fall for such a short reply. Soon he adds, through a sigh: 'Only once you solved the case, John. I wouldn't burden you before. I needed you to stay focused.'

'You said I had already solved it.'

'Well, I mean when you solved it _again_. Fine, so you did it before, in the taxi, just before the crash. Didn't help you much because the impact caused you short term memory loss and you forgot.'

'Why is me solving the case, _again_ and _as well_ , so important?'

He blinks, and answers with gravity in his voice: 'Because no one, not even the Universe's randomness, should take that away from you, John.'

'I've solved cases before!' I protest, feebly.

'Ones or Twos, out of Ten, very seldom, yes. But usually you are left to admire me in my work.'

'That's a bit self-centered, mate!'

He's not bothered. 'Still, it's true. Maybe I wanted the chance to admire you, ever thought of that?'

 _No, I haven't_. I stand there, utterly confused, as Sherlock gets up to open the library door. On the other side of the threshold I see all the suspects, and even the victim. _Professor Plum is looking good, for an imaginary zombie._ Having the victim there is a perk of the imaginary universe, I gather. I can feel my headache returning.

'Sherlock?' _What's going on?_

He hides a complicity filled smirk and explains: 'Well, you are very old school, John. No modern detective with an ounce of self-worth does the whole whodunit speech anymore. But this is your moment, so I will refrain from spoiling it with criticism...'

 _A bit too late for that, don't you think?_

'Fine. We can have some fun, Sherlock. And you need to help me if I get something wrong... Can you whisk up some more chairs?'

'Way ahead of you, John', he politely points behind me, where sofas and cushioned chairs take center stage in the library, the broken light fixture is all repaired and hanged again, the rug clean and neat.

I'll really miss _magic pockets_ neatness upon my return to real life.

I take a deep breath. 'Thank you all for coming', I welcome the suspects and the victim into the crime scene.

 _ **.**_

Night is falling outside the library windows. We gather under the bright light of the ceiling's fixture.

'This has been a most unusual case', I state my opening line, uniting my hands behind my back and pacing the room in my most authoritarian, Captain Watson's pose. The four suspects and a victim don't dare to stir in their seats. Well, for the most part. The twins are eyeing Sherlock seductively. They probably have a bet going on between them. I've got the attention of _most spectators_ and resume at once: 'An admired physics academic professor died in his library... recently', I add, as I glance to the victim in Sherlock's Mind Palace. 'Don't know exactly when because I'm a bit fuzzy on details as such.'

The victim crosses his arms in front of him and assures: 'The time reference is relevant, doctor Watson.'

I turn on my heels and send Sherlock a pleading look. _Can't you shut up the victim, please, Sherlock?_

'Mrs White found Professor Plum, pale as death, as she came to collect the tea tray. She claims he was distinctively alive when she brought in the tea, so somewhere in-between tea tray movements we have our time of death. Poison on the tea was the easiest possible explanation. Some poisons are destroyed as they get metabolised by the body and so leave no identifiable trace to be picked up at autopsy. That would entail preparation, cold-blooded and precise. The tea has been prepared by Mrs White in the kitchen. Suspicion falls naturally on the faithful housekeeper. But she had no motive, no reason to kill the man she worked for, and she didn't hold a grudge against him. Now, Mrs W, did you leave the tea unattended at some point in that afternoon?'

'Yes, doctor Watson. I went to gossip with the neighbour from flat 4C.' The suspect has not yet run out of handkerchiefs and quickly whisks one up, holding it up to a tearful eye. I feel bad for her. This is not as triumphant as decades of crime novels has led me to believe. _I must hurry this along._

'And who of the rest of you had the opportunity to spike the tea with a lethal dosage of poison? Well, no one. As it turns out, the three of you with financial motivation were all being oddly inappropriate behind the host's back, and you alibi each other out in a farfetched tale of theft and unrequited love. One of you was in the library as Professor Plum died; isn't that so, Miss Scarlett?'

She snaps her eyes towards me. I don't think she was listening at all. After a second or two, when her brows unite in effort, she reconstructs my question and finally answers: 'Yes, I stood behind the right-hand side curtain, hiding.'

'You heard him collapse over the desk, but noticed no one enter or leave the room. Which makes this an odd locked room scenario.'

She stares blankly at me. _This is hard work, Sherlock. These are very uncooperative imaginary suspects._

'Every single one of you has an alibi for the time of death if we believe Professor Plum was poisoned... Only you weren't, Professor, were you?' I turned over to the victim and accuse triumphantly: 'It was Professor Plum, in the library, who did it, with a dagger, a revolver, a candlestick, a rope and a spanner!' They still look blankly at me. 'Sherlock, a little show and tell?' I sigh.

 _So much for the triumphant high point._

Sherlock nods, energising himself and raising himself from the rug, where he's kneeling, calling out for the small extraneous cat that has been haunting us from the start.

 _ **.**_

 _Who would think such a little cat could cause such a vortex of mayhem?_

Sherlock finally gets his way. I'm left pleasantly surprised with my friend's patience when confronted with another independent and proud little creature that minds no one else's advice, not unlike himself. Little Schrödinger (I call him that, anyway) comes out of hiding from under the library's desk. His whiskers are up in the air and the adventurous kitty is circling near Sherlock's magic pocket.

 _Sherlock, I hope that's dry cat food, in the least! I'm not taking your dressing gown to the imaginary cleaners!_

'John?' he calls me, oblivious to my silent reproach. Of course I come over. I pick up Schrödinger and nestle the purring fury creature in my arms at once. That's when I see what Sherlock wanted me to see. Underneath the desk, just partly revealed by a playful cat, is a second candlestick, an identical twin of the first we found in the room.

 _It proves my theory._ I suspect it has been Sherlock's theory from the start, as well. Now, to give it to the expectant crowd...

'My _assistant_ will hand me the second candlestick. Sherlock...'

My friend rolls his eyes, but follows the lead. I take the object with my other hand and place it on the side of the desktop, near where some scuffle marks are embedded in the dark wood. The same markings Sherlock has studied upon arrival. 'Professor Plum fell victim of an elaborate machination. The candle was burning as a rope was stretched from the left-hand side curtain's drawstring (keeping them firmly drawn aside) all the way to the centre of the bookshelves. The rope barely set above the burning flame, set to snap, acted as a timer for the secret contraption.' Sherlock and I move to the bookshelves, under the suspects' scrutiny. We may have just earned ourselves a bit of respect, at last.

On the centre of the bookshelves I slowly dislodge the secret trap door, disguised as a set of encyclopedias. Only the binds remain, and as I angle them up I reveal a small rigged compartment. _Miss Adler's revolver in the safe gag had nothing on Professor Plum's ingenuity._ I report faithfully: 'Inside the compartment there is a recently fired gun that reeks of burnt gunpowder, fixed in a set position, aimed at the chair behind the desk. There is also a spanner that presumably kept the trap door open in precarious equilibrium until the gun recoiled as it fired and knocked the spanner down and shut the trap door, hiding away part of the elastic rope that separated from the main and snapped back, just in time. The other half of the rope is currently out of sight, behind the set of curtains where, by chance, no one was hiding. Miss Scarlett, though she was in the room, could not see what was going on as her uncle set up his last great experiment. She didn't care. She was waiting for her chance to leave. There's a silencer stuck on the gun's barrel, which further explains why Miss Scarlett did not know what had just happened. The noise of the rope snapping as the candle burned through it would have been minimal, and the trap door closing would snap much like a drawer being banged shut. She heard the professor collapse and took her chance to leave before any wrongdoing could be pinned on her.'

The angry twin refutes: 'The police found no bullet hole in my uncle's body, you idiot!'

'Yeah, well, trust me. I'm a doctor and a soldier. A small calibre bullet coming off that revolver would cause injuries easily concealed by the bruises from a badly performed CPR attempt, like the one by Coronel Mustard. It's likely that the bullet got dislodged during the attempt to revive the dead man.' Just on cue, Sherlock bent over and reached under the desk. What he brought up immediately was the darkened amalgamation of metal that results from a successful bullet. _He's doing a great assistant's job, Sherlock, not resenting that I'm this time the focus is on me._ 'The bullet needn't hit major organs or be perfectly aligned, given the weakened condition of a very sick Professor Plum. Catastrophic organ failure followed, death was quick.'

Miss Peacock argues, thoughtfully: 'The old man wanted to spoil the concert for us? Couldn't he have waited another day to kill himself? Or waited to die off on his own?'

'It's regrettable that the man wanted to fool the life insurance policy in order to leave his nieces a good inheritance. He was in debt, wouldn't be able to pay his housekeeper much longer.'

We all look over to the Mind Palace's conjured victim, raised from the dead.

Mrs White adds, pointing at the candlestick: 'Oh, dear, he could have burned down the whole flat!' _She painfully reminds me of Mrs Hudson and 221B. Hopefully we'll be able to return._

Sherlock defends the dead man I've asked to be silenced earlier, and that now scowls angrily: 'Professor Plum was fond of his house help, he did not mean to frame Mrs White. He did not count on the twins showing up, unexpectedly, or his long lost cousin, twice removed. He couldn't however, adjourn his last grand decision. If you look at the desk, there's a Newton cradle. The inscription is in Danish and clearly holds a date. Numbers. Anyone can read them, even if they don't know the language.' His tone of voice implies everyone else in the room is an idiot.

'Sherlock...'

He deflates, reminded it's my turn, and reports quickly: 'It was the anniversary of his greatest award. He was dying, he wanted to do it in his terms, on his favourite day, leaving behind a lovely puzzle to be solved by John Watson!'

 _Oh, thanks, Sherlock!_

The professor regains his voice to say: 'I never met John.'

Sherlock turns on him, devastatingly dangerous. 'I still blame you, Plum, for whatever happened to John and I after the car crash.'

I hasten to get myself between those two. 'Okay, enough now, Sherlock!'

'Why?' he dares, incensed with cold rage. 'You got hurt, John.'

Around me the walls of the library start shaking again. Little Schrödinger jumps off my arms to the rug and scurries away, frightened. I don't blame him, I'm scared too. This is the biggest earthquake in Mind Palace Land yet, and even Sherlock is looking deadly pale as he stares in disbelief at the crumbling walls.

'Sherlock?' I call out through the roaring rumble of destruction. For once, Sherlock's soothing violin music does not accompanies the chaos and I feel more vulnerable, more exposed.

'John?' he calls me back, looking young and scared as we lock gazes.

Then I spot it. The light fixture is swaying dangerously above us, the ceiling is cracking up and showering us with fine dust and small debris, but that one big crack us traveling at high speed across the ceiling, tearing it into two, intersecting the light fixture...

'Sherlock!' I yell a warning, I'm already violently pushing him out of the way, tackling him off to the ground, as the light fixture falls down and down...

And all turns into darkness.

 _ **.**_

I slowly come to. Don't know where I am. I could be in an upgraded room in Sherlock's Mind Palace, or in Mrs Hudson's head this time, I could paradoxically both dead and alive – I wouldn't know. I've travelled too much, and my mind is numb and my body feels heavy and unresponsive.

'John?'

A soft voice reels me in from far away. Or, in all logic, from two feet away. My friend sits on a chair, by my bedside.

'Sherl–' I mumble thickly. He smiles in depth, and hushes me quiet. _Too early to talk much, I get it._

Sherlock helps me to a soothing glass of water. Only then do I notice he's wearing a hospital gown, and so am I, and the smell of high grade disinfectant supports that deduction. We have exited Sherlock's Mind Palace exile. _See? I'm a detective too now._ Have I even been there? Or _was it all in my mind?_

'You okay?' I insist. He nods, then presses his lips in a tell. _It's a well-meant lie._ I can see some damage myself, bruises and his immobilised left arm. He has unplugged himself from the IV line and the stats measuring equipment to come to my side.

'You took your sweet time waking up, John', he confides, gently.

'I'm sorry', I reply, not feeling in the least guilty. But Sherlock is scared, I can still see the marks of the fear that tainted his expression in the sunken eyes and shaky fingers. I'm so sorry he's scared. 'So, you've been waiting for me to come to?' I ask him with a brief smile. I'd have assumed, by experience, that Sherlock would have tried to discharge himself and driven half of the hospital personnel mad before the first fifteen minutes had passed.

Sherlock looks away, not fooling anyone. 'Been out cold myself for a while. It just so happens that I woke up first because you have sustained a moderate concussion. I do not appreciate being left waiting, and I trust you'll remember that in the future, John.'

I smirk. His gruff manners are meant to hide his concern; my friend dislikes to show his humanity and generous heart.

'Terrible business.' I shake my head, carefully nevertheless. 'Were you bored much without me?'

'I wouldn't quite say "without you", I had the most extraordinary imaginary digression while unconscious, John...'

'Oh, really?' _Me too, Sherlock. Only mine was better, I'd bet._ 'Riding dinosaurs on Mars, or something like that?' I smirk.

He reproaches me with a look, and for good measure he eyes the beeping stats on the life support unit by my side. Steady heartbeat, good oxygen levels, no red flags. Finally, judging me strong enough, he tells me:

'As my transport failed me I went to my Mind Palace. In fact, in my dream, you were there too, John.'

My face falls, and my heart rate spikes clearly on the machine's display. Sherlock carries on, more openly than customarily:

'I believe I was worried about you, John. I wanted to keep an eye on you, even if just a conjured version of you. In fact, you seemed quite _real_ while there. It was poor logic, but it gave me much comfort.'

'Same here', I mutter. It's not possible, of course not. It's unscientific. Even if science is dictated by data, and not the other way round. Could it all be just a weird coincidence?

'What is it?' he looks surprised. My best friend never fails to read me.

'Sherlock... _I was there_.'

It's his time to look perturbed. He looks down on his fingertip, previously imaginarily burnt, and only stops himself because of the nearby presence of flammable oxygen supply.

'John? This isn't possible, this can't be possible.'

 _This is really, really freaky._

Sherlock, however, looks less frightened than irked, now. I ask him what's up with a head tilt.

He growls under his breath. 'It's not reproducible. I cannot blog about a one time only event, John!'

'Mate, no one in their right mind would believe it even with evidence...' I skip a beat. 'I believe it, Sherlock', I whisper between us.

He nods, quietly. _So does he._

 _ **.**_


	56. Chapter 56

_A/N: It's was a quiet Saturday morning and this came about. Now I need to work out where it's going._

 _Still not the usual things._ _-csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

I was offered a proposal I'd never again expect to hear, not in a million years.

Captain John Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, experienced army doctor and a darned good marksman, returning to active duty, one last time, to set some wrongs right.

Just a brief return, nothing great or spectacular, just a nod to a past that has long been lost. I'm proud of that past. I carry it with sobriety and honour, I carry it with me every day, and will do so for the rest of my life. It doesn't take a uniform to make me a soldier, and just because few people left in this world still address me as Captain Watson, it really doesn't mean I've laid down the sword.

I had a mission offered to me. I wanted to say _Yes_. Sherlock made me say _No_.

Well, not that Sherlock ever knew. Because if he did, he'd panic and worry, and I'd hate to see my friend distraught like he gets when he thinks I'm in danger.

And I can't bloody convince him there is no danger in a distant battlefield, can I?

So I said _No_. Maybe I meant _Yes_ all along. Mycroft sure thought so. He had a mission for me. So perfect, it was unbearable for him not to join together the correct pieces of the puzzle. To play army doctor in Afghanistan – _"it will only be a week, two at the most, John, and then you'll be extracted with the target"_ – to get some junior officer out of there in secrecy, because he's got sensitive information on a thwarted planned attack on London. Mycroft wants him interrogated; I don't envy the soldier.

His unit would be told he had suffered a minor lesion that needed specialised attention from London's medical colleges. An easy lie for the master manipulator of truth, the elder Holmes.

As for me, I'd be sent to a war scenario – actually the place is fairly stable, it's mostly recon missions, searching for insurgents, maintaining peace, fighting the odd frantic group of attackers that wants us all to be goners – with the responsibility of assessing the medical facilities in place. Won't that make me loveable? A Londoner civilian with something to say as to how things are run in the heat of combat. That particular area of Afghanistan might be contained for now (I'll keep it's location a secret for private foreign affairs' sake, as per Mycroft Holmes' request), but it receives wounded soldiers from neighboring areas of conflict that are constant feeders of patients and casualties.

Mycroft Holmes was clever enough to come make me the offer I couldn't refuse – _but I did_ – at Baker Street, when he was sure that Sherlock was away. A location and time away from cameras and other broadcasting devices. As if he wanted to keep it a secret from his baby brother for as long as possible.

I said _No_ , with a pained stance. Mycroft chewed on the inside of his cheek as he watched me on.

Weird thing about Mycroft is that he never sits down when I'm around. He much rather have the upper hand by standing up, hovering above me. Or at least he thinks he does. He can't scare an army captain as easily as that.

He wasn't trying to be scary this time. He was mellifluous, unctuous, polite. I could see right through him, gracing himself, stroking my military ego.

'Haven't you other former army doctors in your secret phone book?' I asked him.

'Not ones I could readily trust', he admits when the displeased expression of one swallowing a fish bone.

 _Was that a compliment, buried in there?_

'I'll think it through', I promised him, tiredly. That was the beginning of my mistake, right there.

 _ **.**_

'What are you doing, Sherlock? Are those glasses you have on?' I ask, hand still in the door handle, looking at the figure of my best friend, sat at the living room's table, looming over thick text books.

He hastily puts away a pair of thin rimmed reading glasses – _since when does he need them? or maybe it makes sense, he's always carrying around bloody magnifying lenses_ – and he looks up to me, keeping his surprise in check.

'You're home early', he comments, nonchalant.

I nod, squinting over to the books. Are those some of my old medical text books? I thought they were upstairs in a couple of dusty cardboard boxes...

I smile at him. 'What on earth are you up to, Sherlock?' I ask openly, not bothered by the petty theft at all.

'Brushing up on my knowledge of the living ones', he admits. 'Complex creatures. I can pinpoint 47 causes of death at first glance, but only 2, maybe 3, medical diagnosis while they are living.'

'"They"?' I mock. 'My friend is a vampire, _I knew it!_ '

He admonishes me with a heavy look alone.

'Exsanguination, hypothermia and maybe liver failure related jaundice.'

'What's that?'

'The three diagnosis I am currently confident to assign, John. A lot of red, a lot of blue and a lot of yellow. Medicine is really quite colourful, John.' He smiles like a little kid.

'Oh.' Right. He's being funny now. 'The first two are diagnosis alright, but jaundice is a symptom really.'

'Two then, not three. But you can still have a patient's death scenario.'

Baker Street has always been the place for a normal conversation about the undead, right?

'Good, great, keep working on that...' I tell him, as I put down my doctor's shoulder bag. I've just returned from a regular shift in the surgery as usual.

Is Sherlock brushing up on his medical knowledge so to replace me? Because he thinks I'm not always at hand? There are bloody bills to pay, one of us has got to work because one of us doesn't have a brother who can manipulate the banking system, or has this massive family inheritance – or something... God knows we don't often get paid for our cases; and the best ones are often _pro bono_.

Tea, I need tea; what else is new? I'll blame Sherlock for London's shortage of tea, soon.

'I'm not replacing you, John. You are invaluable to me, even if a little bit paranoid and needy. There! I said it! Hopefully you will not require me to repeat myself and embarrass you again...'

The git said all that to my back, obviously, as I was turned towards the kitchen. I turn back to him, aggravated, and he cuts me off with the practical question: 'What is MRSA?'

I blink. 'Flesh eating bacterial infection with near total resistance to antibiotics, why? You did not just store a petri dish of it inside the kettle, have you?'

He smirks. 'Of course not, John. The little buggers wouldn't enjoy the water temperature fluctuations.'

I peek inside the kettle just in case, before I start my tea. And inside the mug, for what it's worth.

'You're safe, John!' he sniggers from the living room without even turning his head. He knew I'd be on edge.

I take deep breaths to calm myself down.

'Sherlock, why the sudden interest in my medical text books?'

'I'm studying', he defends, indignant. 'Study strengthens the mind, John.'

'Yeah, but you never cared about that before, have you? Studying the living ones, you called it?'

I come over to his side, with a cup of tea with milk and sugar like he likes it. Perhaps it's a bit of a peace offering in a way, because I may have sounded rough before.

He focuses on the mug and makes some internal decision. 'John, if a patient was bleeding severely and there was no medical equipment nearby, medical personnel still a long way out, and the bleeding was perceived as fatal if left untreated, what would you do?'

I raise an eyebrow, questioningly. But I just pull up the opposite chair and take a seat. 'Where's the bleeding located? Head wounds are often not as bad as they look.'

Sherlock takes some notes in pencil, on a neat little notebook. I look over. Is that shorthand? Does anyone nowadays still know shorthand?

'Leg, John. Mid thigh, let's say.'

'I'd worry it might have hit the femoral artery... Is this for one of your cases? A new one?'

'The artery wasn't hit, but he's been bleeding for an excessive period of time. His skin is clammy and cold, indicating the beginning of hypovolemic shock.'

'Aren't you a happy bunny?' I mutter, with a grimace. 'Tourniquet the leg, tight enough over the femoral artery so that the blood flow, and blood loss, to and from the leg, can be lessened. Only to be used in extreme circumstances, Sherlock. A tourniquet cannot be kept in place for long. Those emergency services are needed asap.'

Sherlock nods, writing more curvy lines and dots in his little notebook. Reminds me of my notebooks, actually, where I often try to keep notes of Sherlock's cases, so I can blog about them later. Maybe I should learn shorthand? _Nah_ , I'd never understand my own writings later... I struggle with my doctor's handwriting as it is.

'Sherlock, are you training to become a doctor?' I ask amid an open smile. He'd be a great doctor too, at least for diagnosis purposes. He'd notice all the hidden symptoms in his patients. The bedside manners and the whole sudden escapades into his mind, though, might be something to work on.

He smiles briefly, fondly, as if my acceptance and faith in his abilities are a gift. I'm reminded that Sherlock's abrasive behaviour is often a barrier for receiving the true praises he honestly deserves from the rest of the world.

'A nurse would do, John', he answers me in all seriousness.

'A nurse? Why?' Then I lose my smile entirely as I feel a cold weight setting in my gut. 'Oh my god, Mycroft hasn't tried sending _you_ to Afghanistan, has he? Because I will kill him if he did!'

Sherlock shakes his head. 'Fratricide is still a much more likely murder type when it comes to Mycroft, John. Do not take my fun away from me, please', he adds, mockingly painstruck.

I blink. 'I've just talked too much, haven't I?' I gather, a cold chill running down my spine. Sherlock didn't know of this work proposal, now he does.

My friend nods. 'You did, but, alas, I was already aware of it. Such as I am aware of a collection of minute tells in my best friend, that inform me that you are intimately pondering accepting due to your unhealthy need to be a selfless hero. For Queen and Country, John. And I'm not ever allowing you to do such a foolish thing.' He smirks. 'Well, not without me, at least.'

'You want to be my nurse in Afghanistan?' I summarize, stunned.

' _Want_...' he ponders the word, as if with mixed feelings. _Maybe he doesn't want, but he'd do it._

'Sherlock, it takes years for people to train as nurses.'

'I'm a genius. Surely it will take me much less time than the average person.'

'And it's the army.'

'Well, we both keep fit, regularly partaking in combat activities across London with a multiple criminals of all backgrounds.'

'Yeah, one of those last times you got beat up with an umbrella, Sherlock!'

'Let's not bring up my treacherous brother or the way he went behind my back offering a life threatening assignment, shall we?'

I smile. Obviously the umbrella wielding muppet wasn't his brother. He was actually a postal worker that stole sensitive letters to use for blackmail.

'Sherlock, there's a war...' I remind him. He is too innocent sometimes.

'That's why I'm not letting you go alone, John. Do keep up!'

I shake my head. Darkly I remind him: 'You might be inside my head, but not even I know if I'll accept Mycroft's mission.'

Sherlock hums, quietly. He seems to anticipate my decision before I made it. Suddenly he gets up from the table. 'John, I believe in informed decision making. Now you know what will happen if you say _Yes_ to my fat brother.'

And with that insult to his absent brother, who has just invited his best friend to go to war, Sherlock slips away in a flourish of dressing gown silk.

Yeah. I really can't see Sherlock in the war easily. I'd much rather keep Sherlock protected.

Why is everyone so convinced I'll go, but me?

 _ **.**_

 _ **MaybeTBC**_


	57. Chapter 57

_**.2.**_

Late in the night, 221B is quiet and still as I'm pondering Mycroft's job offer. A quick, honorable return to Afghanistan, to extract one specific army officer with pertinent information. Perhaps I shouldn't have allowed the possibility to worm its way into my mind. I can't seem to shake it off now. In a quiet flat, when even noctivagant geniuses lie blissfully asleep, I feel free to confront my inner turmoil head-on.

Or maybe it's a consequence of my restlessness turned to insomnia. My sleep pattern is very erratic of late.

Overall, I'm surprised at how the immediately rejected possibility slowly became alluring, drawing me in. A short, controlled, worthy comeback to the battlefield. Afghanistan's sandy landscapes are within a very short list of people and places who might still remember me at my prime. There was a time I was Three Continents Watson, a man with a nickname and a legend behind him. Nowadays I'm just a common GP and a faithful sidekick to a genius detective. I blog his - _our_ \- stories, but there was a time when I was a protagonist myself. I thought I had enough hardship, when pain and infection brought me too close to my end. Upon my return, I told all and sundry I wanted it safe, simple, certain. It's funny how I never got any of those at Sherlock's side. Rather, it was his unruly, unbidden way of living life that attracted me from the start. I carried Death in every tired, dusty crease of my army fatigues for so long it became an integrate part of me. Sherlock carried mesmerizing Life energy, brilliant and bright, plucking me from my darkness like a magical mini tornado, magnetically pulling me towards him. It's amazing how much Light carries the man that is obsessed with corpses and decay, murderers and serial killers.

I don't think Sherlock ever thought I'd go back. Not in those first few months when I was piecing myself together from traumatic past experiences. And not afterwards, as Sherlock and I fit together so well in tight partnership, facing crime scenes, dangerous crooks and Scotland Yard's exasperation alike.

Over the last few months, something has changed. Sherlock has dismissed my restlessness. Lestrade has started sporting a worry line as he shares the occasional pint at the pub. Mrs Hudson has started fussing over me almost as much as she does over Sherlock, and that's quite a lot.

They were the first to see the signs I didn't know I was emanating. Signs that told them I missed something from my past, that I was somehow lost as I searched for a quick fix, a simple replacement for that loss.

I missed the adrenaline, the life and death decisions, the fact that what I did really mattered.

I had it all with Sherlock Holmes by my side; _but not since his return from a faked death._

Sherlock won't take the most dangerous cases anymore, won't accept that there be that much risk after so long away from home - I think he's afraid of losing home and losing me. Those incredibly missed things from his time away from London. He just won't risk as much now.

 _Sherlock Holmes has returned more vulnerable._

And I've become restless again, just like I was - desperate for a reason to fight, a cause to belong to, a reason to risk my life - as I was when I met him.

 _He has yet to notice it._

Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Stamford; they all noticed, and slowly their countenances grew wary as they greeted me. I don't believe they'll be wholly surprised by this turn of events.

 _Sherlock will._

It will be lost in him, the irony of being The Only Consulting Detective and not seeing the simple signs everyone else has been seeing in me. It saddens me that he'll be hurt by that. But then there's what everyone else can see...

Nowadays, the ones I know best envision my comeback to military with ease. Who am I to deny them their hero, the one I so much want to feel like I am, once again?

As night turns to morning, I lose myself in old memories, nostalgia and notions of honour and value. _I could make a difference, do good._ A small question blurts out in my mind, an invoked dialogue of what could be:

"What if I did go, Sherlock? They need my help to make this happen. It wouldn't be forever either. You'd understand, wouldn't you?"

My friend's voice cuts my inner monologue short, crystal clear just as if he were here, and it pleads me:

"Just drop it, John. _Please_. Don't go put yourself in a danger I cannot prevent, folding all my hard work."

 _God lord, I've tamed Sherlock Holmes._

I need to show him that life-threatening danger doesn't frighten John Watson, former army doctor and captain to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I need to let him know that he mustn't change for me. Change himself and his beloved work. He's brilliant just the way he's ever been. I'm the one who lost himself in the watered down excitement of a regular existence.

 _ **.**_

If anyone would have told me I would get used to being followed by nondescript, pricey black cars, commanded by the British government's master puppeteer, I'd have gladly punched that person in the face as a wordless declaration of independence and sanity. I guess I owe an apology to a hypothetic omnipotent clever person who saw that coming. That would be any of the two Holmes brothers, I imagine.

It doesn't mean, however, that I'm to take it without some resistance. It's perhaps due to my need to put my foot down and not allow such blatant manipulation from the two brothers that I always fake not noticing the black SUV trailing behind me. Often I make some sharp turn to a narrow alley (to force them out of the protection of their vehicle and make them join the plebeians like me), or sneak into a supermarket (we always could use for extra milk and I get to make Mycroft's men carry all the shopping), I may enter a pub (I'm still waiting for them to buy a round), or - if I'm feeling feisty - a passing tourism sightseeing bus. Mycroft's men endure patiently my assertion of free will, and generally tail the bus for however many stops it takes before I get tired of the cat and mouse game, or I finished a crossword puzzle. The good thing about it is that I always get a ride back home no matter how far I've strayed while sightseeing London. I've now been accosted by Mycroft's men in most of London's tourists favourites, and they still keep playing the game with long suffering faces, as they try to avoid being framed in the tourists pictures because they are on active duty, or get accosted by frustrated visitors with unfolded maps big enough that could double as blankets for the night, or just get ice cream smudges from school children on field trips that accidently soil their pristine black suits.

Next time will be either Kew Gardens or the Natural History Museum, I remind myself, mentally ticking the box for Tate Modern.

And then, unfailing, it finally comes:

'Doctor Watson?'

I turn, simulating my most confused expression at the unexpected twist. 'I'm sorry, is this a medical emergency?'

They glance at each other, confused. Well, they called out a doctor... _Newbies!_ Sherlock Holmes is not the only one who gets to be difficult. Sometimes I think Mycroft sends me these guys to me for training purposes.

'Doctor Watson, Mr Holmes would like to see you, if you wouldn't mind stepping into the vehicle...' The first starts overly polite.

I pretend to give in, muttering under my breath: 'Keep telling him, there's no way he can fit that amount of cake into his diet...'

The men fight to keep their indifference masks and swallow their smirks in my wake, as I step into my pompous taxi service.

 _ **.**_

I said _No_ to Mycroft's proposal. Definite, decisive, stubborn _No Way_.

Expecting resistance I squared my shoulders and waited for rebuttal. It didn't come. I waited, standing formally in front of the secret Commander in Chief of the British Universe, in his small cold-war bunker office.

He didn't argue over my position, didn't insult me by implying I wanted better pay, or better conditions than my equals in the battlefield, or special favours of any kind. He didn't mention his baby brother for leverage either. How Baker Street is better off with me there, tidying the functional chaos, organising meals and sleep times, stabilising the genius, keeping small fires from spreading. Silence extended between us like an elastic substance. The British government official picked up a pen and started scribbling squiggles in his agenda, here and there.

I cleared my throat, to get Mycroft's attention.

'John?' he waited patiently for more. I take a deeper breath. _This is it._ Make or break time.

'I want _you_ to tell Sherlock I won't go.'

'Speaking to my brother can be so cumbersome', he laments without feel. 'Surely he'll listen to you, John. Contrary to common perception, he does listen to people talking when it interests him. And if you don't get his attention the first, second or third time, try again.' He gives me one of his trademark dead smiles.

I smirk to accompany the fraternal jab. Sherlock is the same when talking of his big brother. It's this game they play, and that they drag me into with fluidity.

'I want it to come from you. He'll believe his brother.'

Mycroft puts down his silver fountain pen. He fixes me with grey-blue eyes, darkened under arched brows. 'And why, may I wonder, would Sherlock not believe his overly honest flatmate?'

I grimace. 'You got it wrong. I just don't want to lie to Sherlock.'

There's almost a moment of unconcealed flutter in Mycroft Holmes. _Almost_.

'I see. Such deviousness is refreshingly new in you, John.' He seems interested _now_.

I nod, disguising how my decision makes me sick to my stomach. I take a deeper breath. My stomach is revolting against my will, a physical tell of my unsettled heart.

'I want you to tell Sherlock I refused, bicker a bit about it while you're at it...'

'...I never bicker, doctor Watson...'

'...And find me a place in the next aircraft heading to Afghanistan.'

'Are you proposing I lie to my brother?'

'Yes. Don't act so sanctified. You'll do it in a heartbeat.'

'Will I, now?' He seems amused.

'Yes. The only way to keep your brother from following me into war is to send me at once and keep him in the dark.'

Mycroft's grey-blue eyes narrow on me.

'Don't you wish to say your goodbyes to Sherlock?'

I shake my head, my voice catching in my throat. _I can't._

 _I much rather leave behind an angry Sherlock than a sad Sherlock._

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_

* * *

 _2nd A/N: Yes, that last line is recycled; I've used it before (shame on me!). And in setting up John's restlessness, I banked on the fact that in later seasons, for action purposes, John is much more portrayed as just walking along Sherlock for the ride, or he's the male version of the damsel in distress. I believe Sherlock is strong enough as a hero to have a strong John, and it not being detrimental to the show's name. But it's their dynamic that is so enticing, and so Sherlock will not be apart from John long; I just wanted to set up a good credible scenario where John pondered doing this evil to his best friend. Hopefully this section will came across passable. I've been having a lousy week and it's been hard to write decently (or decently-er). My apologies for the sub-standard quality and for some delay in posting. -csf_


	58. Chapter 58

_A/N: It's still very much a work in progress, really. Not very sure about this, but I persist. Still not– Ah, well, you know it already. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.3.**_

I don't return to Baker Street. I wouldn't trust myself to do that. A bigger part of me is thrilled to go back, but I can't quite ignore that other part of me that longs to make amends with Sherlock – _just in case_.

I write long letters, in a small waiting room, while my paperwork is being magically realigned by the older Holmes' influence. I write to Mrs Hudson to ask her to look after Sherlock, make sure he eats, sleeps and doesn't accidentally poison himself. I ask her to let me know how he's doing in the same letter format. The replies will arrive a couple of days delayed, but I don't think I could video sync so soon. I feel homesick already and I haven't left London yet. That will happen tonight, as I join other troops in a military aircraft chartering us into the troubled area.

I write Lestrade a fairly straightforward letter, explaining my decision and urging him to keep an eye out over Sherlock's restlessness, and possible ways in which he may be tempted to relieve the boredom. He'll understand the hidden danger. Despite all the detective's enemies, Sherlock's biggest menace might just turn out to be himself.

I write Molly another missive, as I'm becoming fairly accustomed to describing my decision and the fears I hold for my absence. I ask her to pull out some of her emergency cold cases, to engage Sherlock, help him pass the time, doing what he loves best.

In the end, I'm running out of time – and of bravery – to write to Sherlock a full, comprehensive letter. I look down on my page. It reads the absolute minimum:

 _Hi, Sherlock._

 _I'm so very sorry._

 _I had to go, can you try to understand?_

 _Couldn't take you, allow you to risk your life like that for me._

 _I promise I'll return home safely. We'll laugh about this some day soon._

 _I'm going to miss you while I'm there._

 _Would you write–_

I end up crumpling the paper. _I can't._ Sherlock will have to forgive me if he can, some goodbyes are just too hard to say out loud or jolt down on stark white paper.

I get up, self-loathing taking over. _I'm becoming rather good at this cowardly act of running away in search of myself._

 _ **.**_

'Doctor Watson, I assume you are ready to be briefed on the details of your mission', Mycroft Holmes starts overly polite, on a sealed conference room with a bunch of stiff collared people who are used to command wars from afar. I'm sat at the end of a long table with stern looking men and women, sat on either side, all looking down at me with some derision. I get this sense that they mistrust me as a man of action, an actor on the field, that they hide in their safe superior decision making, away from the real war.

I look around at the military assortment, some with stripped honours and medals pinned to the dark uniform jackets, and to the ones who look like career politicians who play the battlefield odds shuffling pieces about over a miniature landscape board in some stuffy office.

'Yes, I'm ready', I say, frowning on the gathering. No wonder Mycroft wanted someone he could trust on the field. These people are not soldiers per se. They have not seen what soldiers see when they risk their lives. Mycroft needed someone that knew the field like the back of their hand, who could translate soldier extraction ideas into reality.

'Get to the compound, get Chandler and tie him up in bandages to get him back in the next med evac. Is that it?' I ask, frontally.

Mycroft clears his throat, hiding his displeasure. He wants to show me off to his buddies, I get it, but I won't play his game. This is not what I signed up for. _Get me there already, Mycroft!_ Let me do my job, let me come back asap.

'Doctor Watson', one of the women addresses me, 'it is our wish to impress you with the importance of this mission. We do not take lightly your personal sacrifices to carry out this mission. It is a decision that honours you as an army captain. London is in danger. We must foil the next plot that threatens the capital of our nation. You take our hope for cohesive intel that will allow just that. It's no small task, and the Queen and Country will be indebted to you.'

She's got it wrong. I already said _Yes_. No need to stroke my ego.

'I understand my mission, general.' I look over at Mycroft, pleading him for action – the real reason I'm here. He smirks and extends me a manila file, while fluidly addressing the politics in the room. He knows I'm not listening any more, not from the moment I open this folder anyway.

Sometimes Mycroft and I get along quite well.

Half an hour of useless drivel around me in the conference room, Mycroft signals the end of the "small strategic planning and organisational gathering". _Finally!_

'One last thing, doctor Watson', Sherlock's brother holds me back as everyone else leaves, disbanding the room in quiet order.

'Yeah?' Is this the time for a well-intended farewell speech?

'I believe you will appreciate this', he says, handing me something from a his squared leather briefcase. I gape at the object, so familiar and so perfect. Yet again, Mycroft appears to know me well.

'A gun? Yeah, I could use one', I say, grabbing hold of that artisanship of pure metal and lethal power. I balance its weight in the palm of my hand, check the aim of the barrel, take it apart to check it's clean and oiled, and put it back together again in one swift move. In front of me, Mycroft acts like he's seeing my eyes shining in delight or something. 'Ta, Mycroft. I'll take good care of it', I promise just as if I was a kid who got a new pet for Christmas.

Sherlock's big brother's eyes narrow, as if I just said something that made him pause. It was just a bit of humour; maybe childish, but seriously–!

I clear my throat, awkwardly. Mycroft chews on his lip and claims: 'Sometimes I worry about you, doctor Watson. And those are exactly the times I understand what my brother sees in you, I believe.'

I'm left speechless. Perhaps it doesn't matter, Mycroft is clearly moving on, gathering his things; the briefing is over. I realise I don't know how to bring up Sherlock and my inevitable betrayal of his friendship. The genius might have seen it coming, but he mustn't have expected that I'd dodge him. Mycroft, however, doesn't bring the topic up, wisely.

 _Sherlock couldn't keep me from going, but Sherlock is the reason I'll come back._

 _ **.**_

The long journey rattled my old bones, as I sat alongside new recruits and veteran soldiers sharing my return to Afghanistan. We travelled during the night and soon the early excitement of the younger ones faded into a heavy, pregnant silence, respectful of what lies ahead for all of us. The military aircraft departed from a distant looking London, all impressive as fairy lights in deep pools of darkness, where I could not make head or tails of the places I hold dear and leave behind.

As we arrive, shattered from the long inflight and convoy trucks on dusty roads, I'm numbed to the world, and exhausted beyond relief. Feels like I've been fighting for a long time to get here. Feels like the sandy landscapes have already started seeping into me, bit by bit dragging me down, drowning me in dry land.

I'm blessedly shown a standard bunk bed on the officers quarters, next to which I can throw down my dusty duffle bag. I slide myself under covers and immediately lose myself to a deeper state of oblivion.

 _ **.**_

It feels like I'm falling, deeper and deeper, unhampered, in some dark tunnel to the centre of the earth, allowing the claustrophobic walls of compacted dirt and jagged edges rock closing in on me. I keep falling. Daylight above me narrows to a pinprick. Temperature rises, unbearably. Breathing comes in painful gulps. Only darkness around me now, swallowing me into its terror filled landscapes.

'John!... John, please... It's only a bad dream.'

My eyes snap open, my breaths come in with deep gulps that almost bruise my ribs in their raw desperation. I'm awake, I realise, but my body takes its time to catch up with my mind. I blink, all is dark around me yet, a deep shiver runs down me sweat ridden body as I feel a foreign touch on my wrist.

Soft, gentle, _malignant_. I wince and recoil, I won't trust its allure.

'John, it's Sherlock. Remember me?'

 _Of course I do._ I force my head to face his way, breaking the lingering effects of sleep paralysis. Sherlock's face comes into focus. Familiar, reliable, caring. He gives me a confident smile, carefully crafted to appease me. Yet it's the raw worry in his eyes that grounds me, despite his carefully executed efforts. It tells me he's real, human, imperfect, _tangible_.

I knit my brows together. _What happened?_

Only my friend's presence keeps me sane.

Finally, I just about jump. _Sherlock!_

He's here. _How?_

How?

I ran away. I ditched my best friend in the hope that he'd remain safe, protected, in his beloved London.

How did he find me here? I fell into a deep slumber in Afghanistan. To all appearances, that's where I still am. Afghanistan. And Sherlock's here too now, looking the same as always, imposing in one of his slick tailored suits.

Not even in the dry heat of Afghanistan does the man break a sweat, I realise.

Most of all, how did Sherlock know I had come? How did he follow me here, and so fast? I sent Sherlock a red herring text, carefully short, saying I was staying at Greg's after too many pints at the pub with the guys.

Mycroft has folded. _He must have._

 _Oh, my god._

'Easy now, John. It's too soon for explanations. You were having a very distressing dream, I believe. All present questions can be adjourned until after some nourishment.'

I shake my head.

'You followed me', I say. _Am I complaining, accusing him of stalking me? I'm not sure if I'm not secretly pleased, in such a selfish way that my best friend does not deserve._

He nods. 'I had to', he answers in a moment of rare complete honesty. _He couldn't accept my misguided generosity._

I huff out a long breath I've been holding inside me for what feels like forever. I give in, at last, and get my arms around my lanky friend, pulling him closer. Feels like a rescue. Sherlock remains stiff, stunned, but copies my stance, and circles me back with an awkward embrace. 'It's dangerous', I lament his decision; it comes out as a small whine.

'You'll keep me safe', he declares, full of confidence. His arms tighten around me. 'Same here', he adds, in his own promise. _We'll have each others backs._

I form a small sad smile, accepting the turn of events, not without some joy and trepidation. 'Should have known I wouldn't trick you, Sherlock.'

He shrugs. 'I'm a world renowned genius and a consulting detective, John. You stood no chance, I'm sorry to say.' His indifference act still doesn't quite match that worry crease in his forehead. 'Are you sure you are up to discussing this, so soon after–?'

'It was just a nightmare', I state, squaring my shoulders.

Sherlock nods, slowly, as if keeping my front but not believing my story for a moment. I'm easily reminded that Sherlock Holmes has mind access to my internal thoughts when he turns on that deduction gift of his.

'Then I have a question, John', he announces.

'Just one?' I try to defuse the situation with some humour.

He nods, innocently, looking so young and gullible for a second. He trusts my honest answer as a guide when he can't decide social interaction.

'Why did you try to leave without me?'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	59. Chapter 59

_A/N: It's not much, but hopefully enough to keep it going for now. Apologies for the great delay. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.4.**_

'John, you never warned me this was going to be _boring_. You should know I have a low tolerance to boredom', Sherlock depreciates with a snigger.

He's been following me around, as I play safe army doctor in this army compound, stationed outside one of the Afghanistan's hotspots. The area is fairly secure for the time being, and the hot, dry heat of the desert is only partly eased by the shade of the thick canvas and steel structure around us. Military personnel walk about in and out of the tent, under their own orders, with calm efficiency. Maybe to Sherlock this could look just like some unconventional urban medical centre, I imagine. I certainly make no effort to give him the danger, the excitement, and the adrenaline rush he was counting on when he followed me here.

There are downtimes in the battlefield too. I guess Sherlock didn't know that. They get to you as much as the high energy, life or death situations, because it's a waiting game. It has frazzled the nerves of some of the steadiest soldiers I've known.

I keep myself busy, to offset the excess energy flowing in my veins. 'I'm updating the stock check, Sherlock. You are welcome to help', I add, giving him the hint.

Sitting atop a foldable desk at the corner, still in his suit trousers and designer white shirt, Sherlock shrugs like a spoiled teenager prat. 'No, thanks.'

Sherlock never says "thank you"s; just another proof that my friend is mastering sarcasm.

'You are my personal assistant for the duration of this mission, remember?'

He shrugs again; a small, childish come-make-me-do-it smirk on his face.

'I'm your nurse, John, that much is true.'

'You followed me back to the war. It might not seem like it yet, but danger lurks around us at any time.'

'Sure doesn't look like it so far', the detective steals my pen and tries to balance it vertically on his stretched fingertip. He's not taking this stock check the least bit seriously.

'Sherlock, you followed me to a war.'

'You seemed to be under the erroneous impression that I'd let you go without a fight.'

I frown. Sometimes we sound just like a bickering couple.

'You could – at least – I don't know; _do something_.'

He shrugs yet another time, impertinent as ever.

'Make me', he dares. 'Give me an actual order.'

 _No, I won't._ 'This is The Sand, Sherlock. You need to use your initiative, okay?'

'Still can't hear an order, John! You make a lousy captain.'

 _Oi!_ I squint at my friend. He stops smirking before long. I put down my clipboard with the stock log. 'You'd like that, huh?' I ask, sharply. He looks amused, probably because he just got me distracted from my menial task. _Success as far as the bored genius is concerned._

Sherlock is temporarily my assistant, but I will not order him around, like he does to me in Baker Street. That's just plain wrong. This is a war territory. There's no place for games, not even as payback.

The detective turned nurse crosses his arms in front of him, in a defiant attitude. 'Just try. Give me a direct order.'

I blink, stretched too far. 'Fine, you do the inventory check.'

Sherlock pretends to ponder it, then shakes his head. 'No', he says calmly.

'No?' I repeat, crossing my arms too.

'No', he insists. 'I asked Mycroft for a rank above yours. You can't boss me around.' He smiles cheekily, clearly assuming that's the end of it.

I chuckle and turn away, leaving him behind. 'I'd check your tags, Sherlock, if I were you', I advise, just as I'm leaving the tent. 'I'll come back for that stock check in an hour, and kindly remember there are lives depending on it...'

Glancing back, I see Sherlock jumping off the table and rushing past me hurriedly, brushing me aside to make way. He must be on his way to check his army fatigues and tags.

I chuckle quietly all the way behind him. Sherlock's an honorary captain, like me, for the duration of this mission. _I checked._ Mycroft took inspiration to make us equals in the heat of the battle.

 _ **.**_

It's in the eerie quietness that precedes the stormiest days, that Sherlock and I spend the next couple of hours of down time mingling with the other soldiers. I'm burning off some of the restless energy in a lively football match under the dying, but still quite bright, sun. The stale hot air that is breezing from the brazing mountains at the distance is relentless, suffocating us.

All the while, Sherlock never strays far, sitting about in the shadowed entrance to the medics tent. Finally in his camouflage print fatigues, that only accentuate his lean frame, he has taken his united fingertips to his lips in his customary thinking pose, yet his blue-green eyes are perpetually strained on me, as I rush around for the ball in the improvised match.

Sherlock could have looked goofy in a military outfit, as he so often did in his first disguises for the Work, but far from looking like a masquerade party guest, Sherlock actually carries the part with the skills of a good actor. I get distracted by seeing Sherlock disrobed of his favourite garments, the ones he so often hid behind (flipping up the collar) as if behind his own built wall of protection from the world. The brown steel tipped boots take the immaculate dress shoes' place. His long legs are now clad in those tans, creams and greens that bring out the green in his feline shaped eyes. The army tags – Captain S Holmes – glisten proudly under the luminous day at his every breath. The short sleeves white t-shirt he's wearing for now displays those graceful arms that are more accustomed to holding up a priceless violin than a combat weapon, and that carry an arm bracelet with a red cross as an identification of medical personnel. Still, with all that, Sherlock would look very much himself, only transposed directly to a different scenario – especially given that he got a special permission to keep his long curls from a visit to the barbers – if he didn't look less composed by the minute. He seems to be much more affected by the heat than I am. Perhaps I've built some resistance in previous deployments. It was the cold dampness of London that really got to me, much in the reverse of Sherlock's predicament. He looks blushed, slightly lethargic, as he endures the relentless warmth.

My friend is uncomfortable, he made himself that way, because he followed me here, to make sure I return, safe, at the end of my secret mission.

I take a small break from the game and jog back to Sherlock. I'm getting somewhat worried about him.

'How are you holding up, mate?' I ask, handing him my own water supply in a flask. I disinfected the water with the standard tablets, and made sure it was safe to drink, as we are unprepared to deal with the local water parasites.

He looks up, surprised, his face covered in a sheen of sweat.

'You look positively glowing, John', he comments, off-topic as far as I'm concerned. I worry all the more and take a seat by his side, in the warm sand that covers every inch of ground in the compound.

'No, seriously. Drink some water. Any headaches? Blurred vision?'

His expression softens. 'I'm a nurse now, John. I'm thoroughly competent to judge dehydration scenarios. Go back to your game.'

I shrug. 'We're winning. Better give the other guys a chance to level the odds.'

Sherlock hums quietly. It's mesmerizing to see the great detective absorbing that same stale quiet contemplation of the desert landscapes around us.

'Chandler is our target', I start with sudden hurry. I want to get Sherlock back where he belongs, stop this unholy merging with the vast, inhospitable plains confining us in here. 'Chandler is the tall ginger.'

Sherlock hums and sips the water quietly. 'I know that, John.'

What else can I do for my friend but to keep him focused on the case in hands?

'Mycroft wanted me to spy his contacts before we grab him and ship him back to London.'

'I understand that. Is football a ...bonding experience?' Sherlock tries slowly.

I stare at him sideways. 'You're kidding, right?' _Guess not._ 'You should give it a try. You've been watching enough to know the rules by now!'

He tenses and his eyes shift towards me, as I'm getting up and extending my open hand.

'I don't do football', he says, outraged.

'Come on! You might like it!'

From behind me, one of the guys comes from the game to urge me back. Sherlock gives him the sweaty, dishevelled coronel a quick glance and his face turns instantly dark.

 _This might be one of the first times I actually got to watch Sherlock get jealous._

The detective grumps and gets up, but walks back into the tent instead. 'Inventory check, John!' he alleges out loud. 'One of us needs to do it!'

I watch him leave, worried.

Sherlock makes a good soldier, out of my own kind. _He's got the single-mindedness and restless for it._

I return to the game with a small head shake. Not in a million years would I gave imagined Sherlock in The Sand. These death-trap landscapes will never quite be the same now he's around.

'Let's get back to it, Moran. Never mind my nurse, he gets grumpy', I dismiss casually, for our mission's sake.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	60. Chapter 60

_A/N: Sorry, here's just a few more delayed circumvolutions to the plot, to balance it out. Still not British, a writer or a soldier. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.5.**_

'Who is he?'

'Who do you mean?'

'Moran.'

'Oh, _him!_ Just one of the guys. I don't know... Why, Sherlock?'

We're whispering in the dusky quietness of the medic tent. Sherlock and I are doing the first shifts, and took up comfort in spring beds side by side, behind a drawn curtain, forming the otherwise vacant first aid quarters.

We could be school kids in a boarding school or fellow explorers in an adventure in the North pole, for all I know. It feels like our location is hardly important as we easily talk our night watch away. But deep down I know where we find ourselves is crucial. On a plateau by the harsh mountains of Afghanistan, on a one-off return to my past.

I seek no glory, just justice for a past that is still a very alive part of me. I did good, I was a good soldier. Mycroft made me an offer to return, I hesitated while everyone knew I'd give in. Perhaps I knew it too all along. I tried to hide my solid decision, the only one I could come to terms with, from myself, and from Sherlock. My friend was the only person that could have stopped me. And I thought he'd do it too. Keep me from coming, keep me from harm, but also from fulfilling my life call.

 _I was so wrong about Sherlock._ Instead of holding me back, he did what only a good man can do. He followed me to the end of the earth, so to be assured that I'm kept safe.

 _Best Clingy Friend Award goes to Sherlock Holmes._

There was a time I felt betrayed because he didn't allow me to know, didn't allow me to follow him in his own dangerous and lonely quest. Perhaps he has learnt from it, in ways he refuses to disclose, but that firmly latched him on to this decision today.

'It's nothing, John. Forget I asked.'

I frown to the slight undulation on the tent's canvas ceiling above us. The night is quiet, no urban sounds to full the vastness of silence, and the air is heavy and scented with what I've learnt to associate with these sandy landscapes.

'You got jealous?' I smirk. Sherlock reads my mind every day of the week, he'll be sure to pick up the tone in my voice. 'Moran was on duty in one of my last deployments, I think. We used to play cards.'

'You used to lose at cards games whilst playing with him, you mean.'

I glance Sherlock's way. The darkness is hiding his features. 'No need to be nasty, Sherlock. I'm not the greatest player, but I can hold my own.'

He hums, disengaged. I sigh. _Jealousy is still a very likely diagnosis._

'And Chandler? You know; our target?' I start over.

Sherlock hums again, decisively this time. 'Still a few days away from the pick up date, John. I thought you could befriend the target - it seems to come very naturally on you - and we can get an advance on Mycroft's job.'

'You mean the foiled terror plan your brother mentioned? I don't think Mycroft wants us asking Chandler questions, so that we don't spook him.'

'Precisely, John. When did I last comply to my brother's whims?'

I frown, divided between my orders and my curiosity.

Sherlock blows raspberries at me. 'Always the good soldier, ugh? What short-circuited your wits now, John? The uniform, the dry heat? Or did my brother promise you another glittering medal?'

I blink, and turn my head Sherlock's way. Finally I put on the light in the small petrol tanked lamp on the floor. My friend's familiar face coming into focus.

'I'm not here for a medal. You don't follow through missions for medals. That's one sure way of getting yourself killed.'

Sherlock tells me, flatly: 'You're here for honour and country.'

'Yes', I agree quietly.

'Well, I'm not. And I'm going to investigate this terror plot. Are you joining me, John?' he asks the tent's ceiling shadows reflecting on the stretched canvas.

'Yes, you know I am, don't play silly', I assure him, turning off the lamp light. I can still see him smirk fondly. 'Night, Sherlock.' He can take the first shift and I'll have the second.

'Good night, John.'

 _ **.**_

I'm woken up with a painful jerk as all the tent seems to erupt in noise and dizzying movement. There are authoritarian voices shouting confusing orders, and desperate moans and heavy thuds of boots, and not far away helicopter pads cut the stale air into thin blades of overheated desert air. The rush of air hits me with the smell of raw humanity and I find myself paralysed in my own body. Too awake to fight back the onslaught of such a vivid flashback.

A shiver brings a tingle down my spine as sweat trickles down my back.

'John? John, it's real.'

Sherlock's quiet voice startles me, reasoning when my own mind is still enshrined in sleep and basic terror. He stands just inches away from me, and leans over but hesitates to touch me until he gets a sign of my full return to consciousness, out of respect and precaution towards a veteran soldier.

I glance his way. _Afghanistan, of course._ We're actually here this time. Sherlock is usually a proof of London, of safety. Perhaps his presence can carry the quintessence of what always feels like home to me. I'd hate to lose that.

Sherlock foresaw my understandable confusion and eased me back. Now I shove away my army issued pillow and get up, ready for my battle.

'Sherlock, get the anaesthetics out fast', I direct, suddenly at ease. I've been through this so many times it feels like second nature to me now.

'You haven't seen the patient's wounds yet', he points out.

'I heard enough', I confide cryptically. The med evac helicopter brought a hurt soldier from afar, so his situation is dire. He's in pain, I could hear the raw sounds a man cannot fake. It's going to be a long one, I can feel it in my bones.

 _One learns how to make a few deductions on a battlefield too, Sherlock._

Three or four soldiers burst into the tent, carrying another one a gurney.

By my side, Sherlock takes it all in with wide eyes, and quietly suggests: 'Tourniquet the leg?'

'Yeah, till I get him stable enough to fix him', I agree, feeling proud of my friend for his quick eye. Sherlock is a genius in any field of work he dedicates himself to.

 _ **.**_

After a long night's work, Sherlock has deep dark bags under his eyes and looks paler than usual. I worry about him, as I go around tidying up the med tent after the night's surprise, recovering in a corner bed. It was touch and go for the longer part of the night, but I believe the soldier will recover now.

Better keep the place tidy, never know when the next wave of injured soldiers might arrive.

'Sherlock, you need to rest.'

He looks up, startled, jittery. It's scarring him, being in the war. On an instinctive level I know I must take Sherlock back before the damage has a chance to become too lasting, as it once was to me.

'You need to rest too', he answers, tiredly.

'I'm alright for a while longer.'

He chuckles sadly. It takes me a couple of seconds before I realise I'm parroting what he always told me when I pleaded him to rest from his absorbent long work hours.

'I'll go when you go', he dares me, looking up again, biting his lip in insecurity. He looks too young, too naïve, and I feel the urge to protect him from the dark world outside.

'Okay, Sherlock. _Okay_. You win. Lets grab some sleep. We've earned it. _We did good_.'

'That we did, John. That we did', he mutters back, fervently.

I only wish my nightmare riddled mind could feel it deep inside, and give me a hero's few hours peace.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	61. Chapter 61

_A/N: Yeah. I can't believe I've been gone and left them in a war either. Real life has been acting up, sorry. (Keepingmyfingerscrossed!) -csf_

* * *

 _ **.6.**_

The convoy trails lazily the dirt roads, carrying part of our unit to a nearby temporary camp, just recently recovered from the insurgent's hold. A small victory in an ever changing scenery, not significant enough to make British news, but incredibly important for those risking their lives in a complicated, longstanding war. We were asked to join the team over there. Tired, exhausted soldiers in need of some temporary relief. After all, we're all part of the same team.

As for my secret mission, Mycroft must have been told, for Chandler is part of this very set of soldiers sent over. I can do my job as a doctor and still carry out my duty to the country.

I lean back on my uncomfortable seat. The army is no place for luxuries. Shook to the core for miles on end, it feels like the engine's steady trepidation is slowly seeping inside me, settling in my very bones. All around the convoy are sandy dunes, in a poor colour gradient of light tan colours and long prostrated shadows, sporadically enriched by iron ores streaks of brick red. As if all landscapes around us were made of dry mud and dusty earthy tones. From my uncomfortable seat I only catch a glimpse of the outside we trail lazily, but it too seeps into the depths of me.

Inside our truck, the air is too hot, too stale, almost unbearable. It is thick and illusively fragrant with spices, in minute whiffs carried from far away, from the populated areas, where the locals try to persevere with their daily lives. But that reality in organised settlements and towns is too far away, and the land we know here is harsh, sterile and marred with difficulties. We could be in a different land altogether.

Inside our uniforms, the dragging movement of our ribcages catches on the folds of our sweat drenched clothes, weighing us down, rooting us to the spot, dragging us to a bottomless pit where comfort is but a reality only far away.

'John?'

I snap to attention at Sherlock's casual call out.

He's standing right across from me, as we take the two parallel long benches, running along the length of the truck. He's staring attentively at me, as is his redoubled custom outside the safe, homely contours of London.

'Yes, captain?' I call Sherlock like that, to diverge his attention from my momentary distraction.

He smirks, as if fully aware of my attempt and fondly looking down on it.

'I'm bored.'

 _Oh, no, please not this, not here._

Several of the other soldiers glance at the childish nurse with mocking expressions.

'What do you want me to do about it?' I ask, bewildered.

'I don't know. You always drive the boredom away', he comments, childishly.

'Name all the body's bones in your head.' I suggest.

'Cranium, mandible... Are you including the vertebrae in the upper portion of the spine?'

'What?' I blink. 'No, I meant _all_ the bones _in the body_.'

'You said "in the head", John. Do be precise!' he decries, secretly amused.

'I meant you didn't need to say them out loud!'

'I sure hope not. You are an able physician, I believe. These are things you should know by yourself.'

'What, no! I don't need you to tell me–'

The other guys start laughing; I cut myself short, startled at the audience. When you have a small truck packed with eight sweaty soldiers, the sniggering does not go unnoticed. As our banter. I smile softly. This is the good side of the army. We're all comrades in whatever traps fate pins on us.

I glance forward at Sherlock. He looks intrigued, as he relentlessly studies me.

 _ **.**_

I'm dozing, drained from heat exhaustion and lack of stimuli. Not far, the murmured conversion of three guys in a cards game. Another is mumbling under his breath as he writes a long letter to his wife back home. And I'd be ready to swear Sherlock is humming a song under his breath.

It's so strange to sense Sherlock in these lands. Worlds colliding, so to speak. Yet he fits in so seamlessly. It really feels, for a frozen instant in time, like I could have it all, I really could.

 _Does that mean I wished I could stay? Make this my life again?_ I'm surprised at my own thought process, at allowing that thought to gather momentum.

Suddenly, that same reality I was so ready to praise shifts entirely. There's a thundering explosion just at the side of our truck, and we're jolted within the wide compartment, landing haphazardly on the floor and over each other. An IED by the side of the road? The awkward angling doesn't stop, we're bring tilted onwards, and suddenly there's no more upright, all reality is skewed as the truck collapses sideways against the dirt road.

I land with a thud, partly over some backpacks and over Sherlock. My friend keeps his composure throughout the ordeal, he even softens my fall, keeping me from hitting my head too hard.

'Everyone okay?' he mutters, looking around.

I force on a tight smile. 'No nursing yet, Sherlock. First we fight', I explain, drawing my service gun. _Mycroft was right._ I'd come to need it.

Sherlock nods, very serious, again accepting seamlessly that I'm to take the lead.

 _This is my world_ , I realise with a gut twist. I need to keep Sherlock protected.

Sherlock won't keep his arrogance bottled for long. With a fluid gesture he copies me, drawing his own gun. His old Victorian inspired handgun.

 _How did he even get that sheer exaggeration of a weapon through customs?_

'Quick!' I urge him, instead, as I sneak out the back of the truck. A few of the other guys follow us. Moran stays behind after exchanging a wise look with me, keeping an eye on the two or three soldiers who gave sported injuries in the crash. One of them is Chandler, the one we promised to deliver to Mycroft Holmes.

Once outside, in the same stale heat but with a fresh chill running down our spines – it's quiet, far too quiet, in an ominous type of quiet – we steadily move to take cover behind the overturned truck. From the other vehicles in the convoy, only the same strange stillness.

There'll be snipers waiting to wipe us down, now we're exposed, vulnerable.

Each side is waiting for the other to make the first move.

Suddenly it comes, in the form of a spray of automatic fire. I rush to the nearest of the other stopped trucks, so to give time for the others to position themselves safely.

 _'Holly–!'_

'John?'

Sherlock's slightly panicked voice travels well under the constant gunfire thundering sounds around us, from his shelter by the overturned truck.

'I'm alright, are you alright?' I focus on him immediately, as I lazily trail a few unfocused shots over to the enemy. Just to keep them in check. Better not give them any chance to advance on us.

'I'm alright', he says, quietly now.

I take cover again and hastily reload ammunition onto my service gun.

'You know', I start, 'it's okay to be scared, Sherlock. No one expects this to be easy on you.' This is a quiet conversation we could be having just as easily in Baker Street.

I glance at my friend as I slam the magazine home. He's got a furrowed brow, confused look to him.

'Scared?' he repeats, almost fondly.

 _In fact, he doesn't look frightened._ He looks calm, as if he wanted to be nowhere else but at my side at this dangerous, tight spot.

I may need to remember that Sherlock has got two years unaccounted for. What he went through in those years I can only guess, but they changed him. At times like these, I see a fearless, steelier man who has been through his own personal hell.

Somehow he hasn't become nearly as damaged as me. Perhaps Sherlock is stronger, perhaps he found strengths in something important during his long exile. I wouldn't know, he won't talk about it.

If I'm anything to go by, then now that Sherlock has got a home, a life he loves to return to, he'll fight even harder to return from it, giving him more strengths than the basal survival instinct all humans share.

'No, no!' Sherlock voice pitches high, once again, as he struggles with his handgun. By the sound of the metal hitting metal, his magazine is jammed. Not that Sherlock is not desperately trying to fix that.

I shiver in cold, unexpectedly in the desert's stale hot air.

I need Sherlock to survive this mess he has come to share with me. And so I get up in one swift move and, firing odd shots the insurgents way, I run the short distance between our hideouts. As I'm reaching his lair, a close shot makes me stumble on my feet as I struggle to keep upright in the sandy ground, burying each long legged step. I feel Sherlock's iron grip pulling me to safety those inches away from safety by his side. His fingers locked on my fatigues' fabric and paradoxically trembling.

'Don't ever do that again!' he hisses, like I'm the enemy.

 _I guess he's scared after all._ I hand him my gun. He can have it for now. A gun always sooths me when I'm frazzled, anyway.

In unspoken agreement he takes my gun and covers us, sparingly using my bullets. I'm already working on his oversized, useless, circus act, gun. I'm still puzzled as to how he smuggled it in; more than that, why the affection for such a show-off handgun.

Where did he get it from? Moriarty's web?

With a sick twitch of my gut, I readjust the barrel inside the gun, now properly aligned. Guess Moriarty had his last one up on Sherlock, by luring the showman detective to dramatic games, and feeding his appetite for flair. Sherlock was drawn to a gun that jammed with sand speckles in the heat of battle. I fixed it now, but I never want to see this gun again once I get him home.

 _I'll make that my priority. Get Sherlock home and school him in gun safety and keeping in check his dramatic outbursts._

Meanwhile, we stand on a real, live fire battlefield. On our side, the men are unorganised. Someone needs to take the lead.

 _I'm a captain, after all._

Sherlock and I can create a distraction, and the men will take the snipers down. There are three, no four, of them, from some feet away, hiding on a ditch at the roadside, after a curve, three hundred yards away, no more than that.

We need to take control.

I look over at my best friend, following me in my self-imposed mission will be just short of mad and suicidal. It is, however, our clearest chance of survival. Given enough time we'd get rescued. The army doesn't leave his men behind. But time is a precious commodities we don't have right now. We need to fight the odds, that are stubbornly against us.

'Sherlock...' I whisper his name, eyes trailed on the ditch where the target hides.

 _He knows._ Sherlock reads my mind with ease and as soon as I step forward he shoots my gun, faithfully giving me the cover I need. I can sense his irritation; he'd rather have me safely back in London. This is no time for common sense, though, even if Sherlock is its unusual vessel this time.

 _ **.**_

'John Watson, I shall say this only once, and I assume that even in the midst of your temporary insanity state you will pay my missive its rightful attention.'

I smirk, cleaning my gun thoughtfully. He takes a deep breath and persists:

'John. If you ever – ever – do that again, I will personally lock you inside 221B and never – ever – let you out again!'

I giggle. 'Sherlock, be serious, you can't kidnap me. And for what? Because for a moment there you lost sight of me?'

'Because you were reckless and it almost killed you, John. I rather be your kidnapper for life than lose you.'

I frown, saddened. This hardly sounds like the cold reasoning Sherlock I'm so used to.

'Sherlock, I had to–'

He interrupts me, berating me loudly, completely off the handle now: 'I don't care! I do not care about what you felt you had to do! You cannot die!'

I blink and gulp drily. 'Agreed. I don't want to get killed, Sherlock', I state, bewildered. _No one ever told me this before in my life_ , I notice. I don't know if it would have made a difference either.

'I'm sorry', I say. It's little to sooth my friend, but what else can I say? I mean it, too.

He gulps drily. He knows. 'You are forgiven, John. I realise minor intellects have a certain penchant for martyrdom causes but I trust you to know that I do not care for it.'

I smirk again, feeling more relieved. Sherlock's streak comes off nasty but I know better. I know he's scared. The War has finally materialised to Sherlock. He's scared now. Properly frightened, as all good soldiers should be to assure they return home.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	62. Chapter 62

_A/N: Still looking for a home myself. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.7.**_

Sherlock's been following me around like a puppy. Honesty, it's getting on my nerves now. He doesn't get it. He thinks I risk too much, I expose myself too much. We are stationed at a war zone, there's no such thing as staying on the sidelines. My friend, the great detective and provisional nurse, seems to have taken to himself this idea that I'm being reckless.

Any other time this attention seeking behaviour could be endearing, and mildly amusing. Sherlock speaks often of Baker Street, tea, Scotland Yard's cases and of our friends.

 _It unhinges me every time._ I lose my soldier focus in an enemies riddled land, when Sherlock brings up the homely comforts. _I think he's homesick._ As for me, our time here is almost up, and now I think of this army base as the only reality I know. I fit here seamlessly. The memories of an open fireplace in London's rainy nights, of a crystalline violin soliloquy anchoring me in my armchair as the only spectator to the musician's soul bearing tales; these memories are fading away now, as if they had only been figments of my overworked imagination. Some days I wonder if I could have dreamt the whole thing – returning to London, meeting Sherlock Holmes, living a different life – because there's a deep throbbing feeling of loneliness that accompanies me here. In such days, fighting for soldier after soldier's lives, the reality I once held in London feels detached, bland, distant, unreal.

 _I'm losing Baker Street._

Sherlock can feel me letting go of it, slowly but inexorably. He's scared for me. My mad possessive friend is determined that we should finish our assignment so he can return me to London; drag me back he will, if need be.

Day by day, I'm secretly losing the will to go back. This place suits me well, my dark moods finding a reflexion in these harsh lands. Perhaps they are the home for me now.

Sure there's a war going on; so what? I've been battling all my life. Only here I'm not the only one.

 _ **.**_

Almost a week has passed by us, on tiptoes. Today is the day we make our move. Mycroft Holmes has planned a fake assault on our army base, at the far east, where our defences are weaker. Amid the confusion that will ensue, Sherlock and I will make our move to get Chandler. The young corporal should be subdued by those few drops of barbiturates in his drink. Sherlock has spiked his fresh water flask. _Sherlock has got some experience in spiking other people's drinks, you see._

We're about to abduct the passed out corporal, so he can be med evac-ed back to the UK, under the pretence of a serious, sudden, catastrophic ailment. Then our job will be done. I believe that will make both Holmes brothers very happy indeed.

Chandler will soon be in the hands of Mycroft's people and our army mates none the wiser. Sherlock will be returned to his beloved London, to the life and cases he misses so much.

Sherlock refuses to recognise that I long to stay here, where I'm needed, and I feel alive and whole.

John Watson was lost; and has recovered his calling, where he was once precocious and brutally yanked from.

The only reason to hesitate in asking the senior government manipulator Mycroft Holmes for a permanent extension in my army leave, to grant me stay here, is Sherlock. My friend will not get it. He'll think I'm drawn in by patriotism alone, or I'm trying to be altruistically selfless when the fact is it's much the opposite. I'm starting to feel at home here.

'John, remind me later of my endeavour to study the rate of decomposition of submerged necrotic tissue, will you?' Sherlock says suddenly, startling me.

I look up from the open wound in the soldier's leg that I'm currently stitching up. Across the table, Sherlock is looking at me so attentively that it brings a wild configuration to his eyes, striking just above the surgical mask, over his nose and mouth. I need to revisit his words, despite his usual careful enunciation. _Did he really just say that?_

'Ugh, yeah. Okay, _nurse_ ', I reply. He rolls his eyes at the title. I just sigh. 'Timing, Sherlock.' There's a body on the table between us; this one is still alive, which makes a healthy alternative to the ones we usually study at the crime scenes.

'You'd better hurry up, _doctor_. Mycroft is about to unleash the real fun in three minutes.'

I blink. Over a battered soldier's body my hands go very still.

'Three minutes?'

'Multitasking, if you could, would be recommended, John. The clock is ticking. Tick-tock...'

The overbearing jerk is making fun of it all!

'No, Mycroft said—'

Sherlock stops me, intensive, _alive_ : 'I asked him to move us on up on his "to do" list.' More aloof, he adds: 'He now believes I owe him a favour. I'll just send a patisserie order his way, next time he's visiting Mummy. He nearly always breaks his diet when he visits Mummy anyway.'

'But, but—' I splutter.

'Multitasking, John?' he reminds me, in fake innocence.

I sigh. 'Fine. This guy is going on the med evac too, Sherlock. He needs more than I can do for him here, if he's to make a full recovery.'

Sherlock shrugs, as if I'm free to invite anyone I want along with us. 'Give your orders, John.'

I nod, relieved that Sherlock is being sensible for once. The world is upside down!

The prearranged explosion at the far end of the base shakes the very ground with its intensity. That's when the real hell breaks loose. Soldiers are running towards the danger, there are authoritarian shouts punctuating the confused atmosphere, the thick dense smoke gets blown in our direction. Sherlock and I run towards the epicentre of our play, demanding that everyone else keeps back.

We break forcibly into the damaged structure filled with lead-coloured smoke swirling menacing along the hot air convection currents. It's both mesmerizingly alluring and dauntingly frightening. Under the cover of the smoke, Sherlock immediately resumes the natural lead. A strong hand flies to grab me by the sleeve, he's pulling me along like one would to a child. I cough into the bandana around my neck (essential for sandstorms and smoke-filled hell pits). I worry for Sherlock, and the smoke inhalation he's getting, but I can feel his lead never falters. Soon he stops and kneels on the ground, by a still, slumped silhouette. _Chandler, our target._ We placed him here, but did not account for this outcome.

My eyes narrow. The stillness and positioning are both telling. Unnatural from a glance.

Sherlock must have seen it too, for he checks the man's vitals first. He looks up from his blood stained hand, a flicker of terror soon extinguished from his scolded features, and he whispers: 'Stone cold dead, John. He's been dead since before the explosion.'

I look over my shoulder, tense, as if I had felt something in the dark shadows looming over us.

'Someone knew he could talk. Someone needed to make sure he wouldn't', I state the obvious.

Sherlock is hissing behind pressed lips, angry at the outcome, and he doesn't quite register my words.

'Quite daring', Sherlock comments at last. 'Someone must have recognised me, knew we were on to them.'

'You are captain Holmes here, Sherlock. Who would know?' I argue.

'This is a bigger operation than we gave it credit for. My brother was mistaken, that should make his day. Chandler did not act alone.'

I look down on the body again, looking for signs to hand to a detective, but by now I'm just about chocking on the thick abrasive smoke. 'What now?'

Sherlock turns enigmatic, pulling the cold corpse to a sitting position and crossing an arm behind his neck. 'Now, John, we up the stakes, we don't let them win. Hurry! We're sticking to the plan, get the other arm!'

'Sherlock, he's dead', I say, absolutely still.

'Yeah, and he doesn't really care much anymore. Hurry!'

'Sherlock, I swear, if you're doing this just to get me back to London...'

'Oh, get over yourself, John!' He smirks victoriously. 'Queen and country, remember?'

 _ **.**_

Moran has loaded the leg wound soldier onto the med evac already as we arrive, and the soldier's gurney has been efficiently strapped for safety reasons. From my privileged position I can't really tell what is going on, other than the sharp whooshing sounds and strong wind whiplashes of the metal blades crossing the air. The engine is on, grunting impatiently to take off.

Sherlock has momentarily trailed off behind me, I think he went to get our rucksacks. He can prove his nursing skills on the way to out of here, but only for one of the patients being evacuated. The other is for the army's forensic experts, he's beyond our help.

 _I keep losing men in the battlefield._

Two guys in our unit are rolling Chandler's gurney on the landing site, towards the med evac aircraft. I'm just going along for the ride. I've straddled the corporal's body and I am performing useless chest compressions, may he forgive me. Occasionally I forget it's for show and redouble my efforts as if I could have spared his life, or avenge its loss.

He's loaded on the aircraft, Sherlock and the guys quickly strap him in for the take off. The doors are closing. _I must go back to The Sand._ Or stay, trusting that Sherlock can still save the day, catch the killer and plotter, that he's not tricking me for his own reasons. I rapidly look up to Sherlock and all goodbye speeches dry on the tip of my tongue.

Sherlock whispers calmly between us _'help me catch a killer, John, I cannot do it without you'_ as a last request. He knows.

I tilt my head. _How?_ I try to ask silently. We have no clues, and only miserable failure to report to his big brother.

Sherlock lingers his gaze on me for a couple of seconds, while he's rebuilding those layers of arrogant brilliance. He sheds the nurse persona as if a mask was rapidly being dropped. His back stands straighter, his gestures widen, and a daring smirk is plastered on his face, before he assures me:

'Chandler was ever only the scapegoat. He was meant to get caught, so the true mastermind of the folded terror attack would remain safe, dormant, seducing more soldiers onto the dark side.'

I look behind me, to the aircraft's door latch, being firmly closed.

'We need to get out now, Sherlock. Finish our mission. London can wait.'

'To catch the mastermind, I presume?' he asks for confirmation. I nod. 'I'm way ahead of you, John.'

I blink. 'Of course, to catch him. What else would I mean?'

He deflects, airily: 'No other reasons why you would remain in Afghanistan?'

'None that makes any remote sense to me right now', I assure my friend, urgently. All previous yearnings forgotten. Sherlock has cast a new spell on me.

 _Let me out now, Sherlock. There's a mission to be done._

His smirk intensifies. 'Just like the olden days. You and me against the world, John!'

I frown harder. 'I really need to get out now, Sherlock. You may want to come too. We'll get someone else to take his ride... This aircraft is about to take off!'

Sherlock conjures sad puppy eyes on demand. 'What about the killer?'

I suppress a giggle somewhere inside me.

The aircraft's engine turns to maniac speed and we can feel the free-falling, excess of gravity instant of when a lift starts upwards or a helicopter takes off.

Too late to get out now, I guess. I groan, defeated.

'Sherlock, I—'

He rolls his blue-green eyes and leans towards me, grabbing my gun out of my leg holster. He lazily points it at the other gurney.

'Sherlock!' I shout, panicking at once.

He drawls, mockingly: 'Oh, don't worry. I don't shoot dying men! The real, injured corporal has never entered this aircraft. We've got ourselves a stowaway instead.' I look along, utterly confused. Sherlock presents, politely: 'John, you remember your old pal?'

The figure lying on the gurney jumps to life, his binds falling off easily and exposing a knife in his hand, trailed on us. I finally recognise coronel Moran.

'Sherlock?' I don't get it.

'Well then, John, I trust you remember Moran, your old pal? You never suspected his friendly ways, did you? He was keeping an eye on us from the start.'

'How did you know? I thought... I thought you were _jealous_.'

The detective's eyes soften only a touch, only visible to me. 'Moran was too fascinated with us, but never asked any question a curious person would have. Besides, you can tell he's a cunning, intelligent man, who never rose above coronel. That should be a clue in itself. He couldn't fool everyone in the army, full of brave men and women.'

I blink. 'Hey, I'm just a captain! Are you saying—'

Sherlock waves me off. 'You could be at the top of any career, John, but you don't seek glory or recognition. Quite unlike our overambitious Moran, I'd say.'

'Moran killed Chandler because he knew we were closing in on him?'

'Chandler was the weak link. He admired you instinctively, John. Sooner or later, Chandler would have exposed Moran. He had to be dealt with. Moran must have been listening in on us, for he knew when we were about to act and where. Instead of attacking us and risking the rage of all the army base, he played along the lines of our plan. He injured a fellow soldier to justify the need for the med evac, that got me the idea of urging the plan to be speeded up with Mycroft. Just a lucky coincidence as far as I was concerned. Moran wanted to be in on this flight. He wanted to get the chance to get rid of us. High in the air, between borders of countries, where better to commit his next murder?'

The cold blooded killer finally interjects: 'Nothing personal, Watson old chap! This is my retirement plan. I've become a mercenary for hire. You two are good, I'll give you that. What do you say we join forces, Watson? There's plenty of fortune to go around.'

I can feel the anger inside me boiling over at once. 'Rule number one, Moran', I tell him.

He looks down on Sherlock's hand.

'Never bring a knife to a gun fight?' he mocks. 'We're thousands of feet up in the air in a pressurised compartment. You can't use that gun on me or we all die.'

Sherlock's eyes glance down on the gun. He lowers it slowly.

'No', I shake my head. 'Rule number one is you never got o battle alone.' I glance at Sherlock. He smiles, before fisting his hand and banging on the metal wall.

Immediately, from behind the supplies' craters lying about there are three or four soldiers emerging, bulky and angry. _Our backup._

Courtesy of Mycroft Holmes. Of course Sherlock's older brother made it available. This was for his baby brother, who he'll always annoy into close protection for the rest of their lives, much to both their chagrin.

Mycroft wouldn't have allowed Sherlock in a war without a military bodyguard escort.

Sometimes it pays to have a Holmes as your best friend. It's like being adopted into this good guys mafia-like family, who is always ready to protect you, no matter how disproportionate the reaction.

Most times, though, you just get kidnapped by dark cars to serve as a mediator in petty sibling feuds. _I miss that._

Finally Moran drops his knife, lifting his hands up in surrender.

'Sherlock?'

'Yes, John?'

'You do realise we need to go back for that injured soldier?'

Sherlock groans, as the metal clanks on the prisoner's handcuffs.

'Only if you give up your idiot wish to stay in The Sand, John!'

'You can't blackmail me with someone's life!'

'Oh, can't I?'

'No.' I cross my arms in front of me. 'But you can ask me to go back to London. I'll say Yes. In the last ten minutes I've had more fun than all the time I've been here. I missed this.'

I think I may be blushing.

Sherlock smiles unabashedly; a true, rare smile that speaks volumes.

I'm blessed to have such a clingy friend.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	63. Chapter 63

_A/N: I guess it's some sort of epilogue. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.8.**_

"They are upstairs, detective inspector", Mrs Hudson's voice trails upstairs as I prepare my return-home cup of tea.

Sherlock has taken up refuge in his armchair, fretting over his violin with rosin. If he notices me glancing back at him, he refuses to let it show.

"Are they alright, Mrs Hudson? Did they come back safe?"

"I think so, dear. They had to. They had each other to keep protected."

"Is that why Sherlock went too? He wanted to protect John?"

"I should think so. We all love the doctor, but you know he doesn't have a very good track record at returning unharmed from that god awful place–" Her voice cracks as if she can hardly bear to verbalise what must have been her fears all along while we were away. I feel bad for her – I didn't think she'd be this affected. She probably didn't sleep well at night, and wouldn't allow the thought of us to stray far from her mind even during the day. Worse of all, not only did I go to war willingly, in a way I dragged Sherlock along as well, leaving her all alone at Baker Street.

I never meant to worry her. It was something I needed to do. They say we leave a part of us in every place we find meaning in life. Perhaps I felt too incomplete, or I had a piece of me to recover from those sandy landscapes. Anyway, I'm not sure I feel more complete now, but I intend to enjoy the simple comforts upon my return.

DI Lestrade's energetic steps pound the stairs two at a time as he comes to see for himself that Sherlock and I are back in London. We only arrived a cab ride ago, and enough time for Mrs Hudson to smother Sherlock in a tight hug that included me as well, each of her boys in one of her fail arms, wiry but warm with unsuspected strength. For those were her boys she was holding close, safe and sound, where they belong – according to Mrs H.

Greg makes himself at home, marching right up to the living room, where he freezes in shock, staring at the sight of the indifferent consulting detective back in the leather and steel armchair. Greg knows better than to ask; instead he tries to analyse and deduce how Sherlock is doing, from what he can see. Sherlock patiently looks up, waiting for the inspector to reach his conclusions.

'So, you're back', Greg says coldly, as he resumes his voice. 'Had to see it for myself.'

Sherlock theatrically trails his eyes along 221B, stopping momentarily at the yellow smiley face fading at the wallpaper, me in the kitchen with two cups of tea (one in each hand), the skull in the fireplace by the growing pile of correspondence we received at 221B while we were away.

'It would seem so, inspector. And how badly did the Yard cope in our absence?'

Greg scratches his head, one of his usual tells. He mellows at once, not without murmuring some profanity under his breath and shaking his head. He steps forward, grabs the desk chair and angles it between the two armchairs, taking a familiar seat.

'If I say we were drowning in odd cases, will you make sure to stay in London from now on?' he asks, exasperated; but I can almost hear his friendly smirk.

'Oh, I don't know, inspector!' Sherlock drawls, languidly. 'That will be entirely dependent upon the cases you hand me, that may require traveling outside the borough, and on my–' he looks over at me, still in the kitchen '–my _doctor Watson_ ', he completes, awkwardly.

I expected to have been downgraded to "assistant", again. It seems like something in our little adventure has impressed Sherlock about me.

Greg follows Sherlock's look and finds me there, two cups of tea in my hands. His brown eyes soften, and that worry crease on his forehead flattens down. 'John, you idiot! Why did you go? Were you trying to get yourself killed? I thought you had enough of that crap with Sherlock, and that you were the sensible one!'

I square my shoulders. 'Duty called', I say, firmly, leaving no room for argument.

Still self-energised, Greg frowns and tells me: 'No one doubts you served your country, John. It almost killed you the last time.'

'It was just a flesh wound on my shoulder', I trivialise.

'We all know it was much more than that, John. Anyway', he shifts uncomfortably on his wooden chair as I come to take my red armchair and hand the two of them those cups of tea, 'we're all glad you made it back safe, John. We were worried sick about the two of you.'

A small smile comes to my lips, I feel so appreciative of Greg's kind caring. Returning from a stoic world does that to you; you learn to appreciate every little blessing.

Sherlock plucks a G chord on his violin before suggesting: 'John, tell the inspector our tale, will you?'

I squint at the detective. 'You tell him.'

'Oh, I'd rather leave the privilege to my blogger, if the inspector is so kind as to hand me the two cold files he brought over in the hope that I'd solve them for him...' Sherlock's wise voice is a honey trap.

Greg fakes a sigh, and shoves the two folders from the coat's inner pocket to the detective's eager fingers, then looks straight at me, expectantly.

'Well, maybe I shouldn't, it's state secrecy and–'

Sherlock rolls his eyes without even looking up from the printed paper. 'Quid pro quo, John. We know how to keep secrets', he says, looking at those files.

I nod at last. _But where do I start?_ Greg gets up all of a sudden and patting my good shoulder he volunteers: 'Don't think I didn't notice you gave me your own cuppa, John. I'll make you one myself, and I want to hear your story. And don't hold back on how squeamish our friendly neighborhood detective got on the battlefield', he finishes with a chuckle.

I smile, feeling at ease, and more at home than in a very long time.

 _ **.**_

Being back in London still feels foreign, as I have yet to shake all the dusky coloured dust from myself. Only a day ago we were in different lands, almost a parallel universe it'd seem.

'You saved my life', I whisper tightly, my bruised throat constricting.

The drizzled chilled air of London is revolving my friend's dark locks. His eyes are patiently thread on mine.

Sherlock smirks snidely. 'Surprised much?' He looks taken back, when he sees me nod uncertainly. 'John, I keep my promises, and I vowed to keep you safe in that forsaken land. What you find so irresistibly appealing in it is still beyond me.'

My gaze drops, as I take it all in. Hadn't Sherlock forcefully inserted himself on this rescue mission of mine, I'd not have survived it. What Sherlock did was incredibly dangerous, and generous, and the product of the warmest heart a man could ever have. Sherlock has crossed half the world to keep me safe. He has forsaken what makes him truly happy – his beloved Work – to care for me, as I needed to revisit my past and reevaluate it. I needed to see I could still be captain Watson, the soldier who never retired, who was forced out from active duty by injury and trauma.

I needed to prove to myself I was still the same man I was once before. In doing so, I learned that I don't need to be captain Watson, the soldier. That now I have so much more.

Sherlock sees that. The man who followed his best friend to war did it to bring me to London, where he was sure I would want to return.

It takes a good best friend to follow you to war, to make sure you can come back.

I gulp drily, looking away into the fresh open air, pregnant with the heavy scent of rain.

'St Bart's rooftop?' I confront with a deep chill running down my back. Please, Sherlock, could we go, be anywhere but here? I never came here after, after–

 _Stop it, Sherlock. Stop it now. Don't._

 _It never was. It was all a trick._

I blink away tears threatening to unleash bottled up feelings I've refused to acknowledge for so long. Time has passed, but this comeback to that grey morning of a fateful goodbye returns to my mind as fresh as if it had been just yesterday.

I look over at Sherlock, knowing that as I face his unreadable impassible stance, my own expression betrays a multitude of conflicting emotions. It's suffocating me. I want to fight or flight. Basic emotions pin me to a vulnerable, small position by Sherlock's side.

He choses this moment to grab my jacket sleeve, pulling me forward with him. He could just as easily be grabbing on to me so I won't run off. He knows I won't fight him.

'Sherlock?' I whisper his name, trembling the vowels, the harsh voice I had before is little more than unrecognizable now.

He proceeds to pull me along, we're crossing the open rooftop on a grey morning, just like another before it.

'This is the best place in town to say goodbye to London, John. It's got quite a view. Thought I'd let you know. Just in case, you consider going back one more time.'

I shiver. _He's messing with me now, he knows my inner turmoil, he's got to know!_

'I don't understand.'

'Come on, John. Nearly at the edge now!' he incentivises me with a fiendish smile.

'Sherlock...'

He steps up on the ledge with a confident posture, and breathes in the air softly.

My own air is cutting like jagged glass edges, and I gulp it in small painful gasps.

Sherlock smiles – a winning smile that puzzles me, a smile that momentarily disregards my presence there, and celebrates his own return to London. Then he looks over his left shoulder to his panicked friend and there's a fresh softness in his face as he watches me.

'Won't you come up and join me, John?'

In shaky legs I force myself up the ledge. Too narrow, and my head secretly swims. I won't look down long, I much rather watch the bustling cityscape around us. It's quite the breathtaking view.

The cold air assaults me from all angles as it drafts revolving around us. Breaking us apart, pushing us over the edge. Sherlock carefully sneaks a hand over my shoulder from behind me. I trust myself in my best friend's hands, literally. He could shove me off the precipice if he wanted to, the sharp thought crosses my mind. But with Sherlock I believe he'd jump as well and together we'd impossibly survive The Fall.

'Sherlock. Why did you bring me here?'

He clears his throat, forcing himself out of his own mysterious thoughts. Probably reliving that fateful day.

'I stood here, John, for a while. Waiting for your arrival. As you did come – I calculated you would – you were little more than a moving small speck on the tarmac below. I phoned you. I wanted to hear your voice. Remind myself of who I was doing it all for.'

I answer mechanically, desperate to report the hap stance of another time factually, as if trying to compartmentalise my emotions from facts and a thousand swirling thoughts preying on me now: 'I picked up the call, already on my way in. You made me stay outside.'

'You were politely acquiescent, John.'

'What you did, you could have done with me already on the rooftop. I'd have seen you disappear over the ledge. Avoid me watching you fall down. But you wanted me as a more complete witness, a credible witness', I blurt out the facts I had no notion I had been analysing for this long.

I once told Sherlock I didn't care how he faked his death. That was out of spite, actually. Of course I care. Almost as much as I care about the reasons he had to do it, and the lack of wholesome alternatives.

'John... I wanted to protect you. I kept you in the dark purposely. I set it all in motion without allowing your participation. I was wrong... John, your recent choices were not so dissimilar to mine.'

'Sherlock, I wasn't jumping out of a building in front of you, for christ's sake!' My words cut the cold air between us, biting hard.

He smirks saddened. And waits.

'You were really scared for me, all along', I realise with a harsh whisper, nothing more.

'Last time, you almost died, John.'

'I had a shoulder wound', I minimise. He rolls his eyes, suddenly incensed.

'I couldn't stop you, John!' he announces, harsh, loud. I wonder if someone down on the pavement will hear us. Sherlock continues nevertheless: 'But I joined you, John.' Sherlock pierces me with an intent gaze, suddenly young and vulnerable. 'I could be of use too', he ends up saying, with his intense gaze on me.

Sometimes Sherlock needs things to be spelled out for him, needs approval to be voiced unequivocally.

'Sherlock, please.' _I never doubted his competence or loyalty._

'You wrote me: "I promise I'll return home safely". I went along to ensure you achieved that much.'

'I didn't send you that letter.' I blink.

'I'm a detective, _of course_ I can read your unsent correspondence from the pen indentations on the next piece of paper's surface. Child's play!'

 _Oh. I guess._

'John, I forgive you.'

 _Wait, what?_

I blink, as I keep myself from punching the git. Especially given that we're still on the ledge. 'Sherlock...' I warn him.

'Now that you are forgiven, John, we must not mention it ever again. It's all in the past. Water under the London Bridge, so to speak. We must go back to Baker Street at once. We can't be late to solve our first case back, and Lestrade is waiting.'

A shiver runs down my spine at the thought of Sherlock in uniform, in battle. John Watson was a dangerous friend to have for the consulting detective.

'Sherlock, are you sure–' _You still want me around?_

'Don't be tedious, John. I abhor repetition, _don't I keep telling you that?_ I need an assistant.' He turns and hops back on the stable rooftop. 'John?' he invites me, lazily.

I nod. Of course I'll come, _I always come, Sherlock._

I smile, appreciatively, and climb down with much less flair.

We've got cases to solve, Sherlock and I. The work has been put on hold for far too long. The vastness of those desert landscapes are finally thousands of miles apart.

 _ **.**_


	64. Chapter 64

_A/N: A bit on short notice, I know. But it just materialised in the mind's eye. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

Sherlock was not amused. He stared at me, shooting daggers from his cold eyes, giving me the chills. I don't think he was prepared, that's why. But I had told him; "I'm changing into my Halloween costume, Sherlock. You should really try it, it's lots of fun!"

He murmured something about childish beliefs in the supernatural and roaming spirits that followed strict calendar rules, as he walked off the living room.

I shrugged and gone upstairs to get my fun ready. _Sherlock can be such spoilsports!_

By the time I came down again, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. I quickly checked my phone as I waited for the kettle to boil.

That's when Sherlock walked in on the kitchen, halfway immersed in some scientific experiment of his devise and stopped short, shocked as he found me. He stood perfectly still, his eyes dilated in terror, his conical flask fell of his slackened fingers and shattered on the linoleum floor.

'John!'

I blinked. Oh, yeah; costume! I cleared my throat, and finally suggested: "You may want to take a seat, mate." He was starting to tremble like a leaf.

The detective's voice reached a peak of out of tune stridency as he shrilly demanded: "Couldn't get something better?"

I knew in an instant this wasn't about the homemade quality of my costume, conjured from the sparse raw materials I found upstairs. This was more than a complaint on the amateurish attempt at a whimsical disguise, surely.

"What's wrong with my costume?" I protested, at a half voice. Hard to be mad with Sherlock when he's so distressed.

He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me to bathroom, propping me to stand in front of the mirror.

"I'm seeing me..." I confirmed, lost to what was I supposed to be noticing, other than the torn up jumper - courtesy of one of Sherlock's latest science experiments, actually! - tousled hair, pale face, some fake bruises and medical stitches made with a felt tip pen and some fake dried blood made out of ketchup. _Genius can be simple at times._ I smiled at my 30 seconds creation of a zombiefied John Watson. The mirror reflected my grin, from ear to ear, and at once I tried to repress my childish glee - to little or no avail.

Behind me, Sherlock's shocked terror was turning to bewildered confusion. It made me sad that the detective that could pull together disguises for the Work couldn't let go of all responsible adult chores and just appreciate a bit of innocent madness.

"Why does it bother you so much, Sherlock?"

He spats the words at my reflection on the bathroom mirror. "Just drop it, John. This can't be fun. You looked injured, anaemic and possibly at death's door. I fail to see be bemused."

I crossed my arms in front of me.

"You're taking this all too seriously. Lighten up! Join me in the dark side. You can be a zombie too, or even a bloody vampire for all the sleep you get!"

He frowns in utter confusion now.

"Fun? It's fun?" he repeats, curious now.

"Yeah", I promise with an eager smile.

He smiles back to me, taking me up on my offer.

 _ **.**_

Baker Street's living room has been transformed in the same homemade, crafted effort of two grown-ups acting like kids plotting mischief. The skull in the mantle has a tea light for brains, flickering inside and blackening the hollow space within. There's a crime scene's worth of tape roll bound across the bookshelves by the armchairs, and the rug on the floor has been decorated with masking tape in the form of the fictional dead body. The living room table holds drinks that are quite enjoyable, and a background of beakers full of smoking, foaming, bubbling colourful liquids that the mad scientist in the room has put together. The chemical concoctions splash and splutter vividly, giving the room a slight musty fog. The air around us smells of cider, pumpkin and spices. There are pumpkins carved for lanterns all around the room, some tall, some squashed; fat or elongated, a variety of pumpkins from the happy younglings to its wise elders.

I look around at the scene with a contented sigh. Not so good as christmas at Baker Street, but acceptable all the same. So much more could be done, but at such a short notice...

Sherlock again copies my smile, slowly letting my homely joy deep into him. He snatches some sugary chocolates treats, storing part of his loot in his jacket pocket. Then he takes up the piece of paper where he wrote WATCH OUT FOR THE SUPPOSED UNDEAD (ALTHOUGH IT'S SCIENTIFICALLY INACCURATE) in big bold letters, and he stabs the message on the outside of the living room door.

I think he finally warmed up to the whole thing. Sherlock has flat out refused a costume, but perhaps he sees himself as a mad scientist, after all the input on the decor. He might even secretly fancy himself as a vampire, with his jacket's collar propped up to his cheekbones. He certainly has the old era, elegant charm to him.

Just in time too, the guests are soon arriving. We invited the gang over. We may have told the more reluctant ones that we'd kidnap them if they failed to come, or poison them in their sleep - which is silly, of couse, Sherlock knows for a fact that it's much easier to poison someone while they are awake.

Anyway, they said they'd come. _I'm glad_. Sherlock will have a great time, and I'm proud that I can give this new experience to my friend.

Mrs Hudson comes up first, perhaps due to the convenient geographical proximity. She at once notices the stabbed door and sighs to the unrepent tenants, but it's as she sees the trailing cobwebs dangling from the ceiling lights that she starts off:

'Honestly, Sherlock, I've just had the place dusted. If you keep this up I'll make you get a housekeeper, young man!'

'Fake cobwebs', he replies, feigning hurt.

She squints. 'Fake?'

'Spun sugar. Obviously. The tarantulas were most uncooperative, I had to let them go free.'

I chuckle silently. Not phased for a second, Mrs Hudson squeals at once:

'You put sugar on my ceiling lamp?'

 _Oops_ , Sherlock might just have made it worst.

'Are those candied apples?' I cut in, pointing at the basket our kind, patience-stretched-thin landlady has brought up.

'Of course they are, John! Care to have one?'

I nod. Sherlock refuses one for himself. His pockets are bursting full already.

'An apple a day keeps the doctor away', he mutters, master of his own logic.

I bite into my crunchy apple with a shoulder shrug.

A soft knock on the door calls on us to greet the next arrival. Molly comes in hesitantly, apologetically.

'I might be a bit late. Just came from the morgue, had to work late. Got a few extra corpses to process on short notice. I didn't have time to get a costume, I hope that's okay, guys.'

Sherlock shrugs. I have to point out: 'You work at the morgue, Molly. it's Halloween appropriate all year round, the way I see it...'

Mrs Hudson reproaches us with a stern look and goes meet Molly, asking her to give her opinion on the cider.

Sherlock pulls me aside, worriedly. 'You didn't invite the devil himself?' he asks me, in a coded manner.

 _Who, Jim Moriarty?_ There's one undead I don't want to see. I shiver, uncontrolled.

Sherlock reads my mind, rolls his eyes, and identifies: 'My brother. I meant Mycroft.'

'I might have', I say, spitefully.

Sherlock shrugs at last. 'Well, it involves mingling with people, there's yet hope he won't take you at your word, John!'

I smirk, knowing full well the two brothers treasure their pantomimed hatred of each other.

Mrs Hudson pulls me away to help her with some finishing touches on the pies, as Greg Lestrade is coming at the door. I don't really get the detective inspector's costume; it looks like a crossbreed between an alien and a superhero. Anyway, he moves over to speak with Sherlock at once.

I take hold of the kitchen knife Mrs Hudson has given me with the seriousness of a surgeon with a scalpel, and prepare to carve out the pie crusts for our landlady. She's really outdone herself tonight. We have a home and a family getting together here at 221B.

 _ **.**_

The night wears long and full, and after a game of decoding the secret messages and solving the mystery of the ancient ghost of the baker of Baker Street _(please give me a break, I was on a time constraint here!)_ , to which Sherlock assured me it was utterly illogical, slowly the guests have retired.

We also had a good time, seating around, telling our tales of horror in the dusky lights of the pumpkin lanterns, while the others guessed whether they were real stories or lies. Sherlock and I won, but just because some of our cases are too unbelievable.

In the end, a bright clear morning came to great us on a messy, cluttered, but thoroughly enjoyed living room, finding me fast asleep on the sofa. Sherlock is fast asleep on the other end, curled up like a child under the checkered blanket.

I think Greg was the last one to leave. Or Mrs Hudson, she usually outlasts us every time.

I get up, stretching my bones and yawning widely. My phone is abandoned on the table. I go get news of the world outside our little 221B by checking it. I find a message from Greg. Maybe he left something behind, or wants Sherlock's urgent input on a troublesome case.

I open the text. There's a photo attached.

That's me, and Sherlock, fast asleep on the sofa. My head is leaning on my best friend's shoulder, and his head is lolled over my hair. I look so silly in my smudged, runny impromptu makeup and torn jumper, and Sherlock looks so peaceful with a pearly white fang protruding from the corner of his mouth.

 _I though Sherlock hadn't got into costume, where did he get that plastic set of fangs?_

 _Or did Greg edited the picture to mess with us?_

At once I look over at the sofa, but suddenly Sherlock is nowhere to be seen, just as outside the window daylight begins to break.

 _ **.**_


	65. Chapter 65

_A/N: Warning: I was asked for another sci-fi clone one, a while ago. This is a mirror piece for the first one. If this type of story is not your thing, please bypass this and the next few chapters._

 _Second warning: I have no clue where this is going really. I apologise if I ever gave you the impression I knew what I was doing. Still not British, a writer, or clonable. -csf_

* * *

 _ **. 1st .**_

All it took was a menacing letter, directed at me. Not even a credible threat, just a badly written, grammatically lacking, crude language abundant, insulting with multiple expletives, long in a waste of ink sort of way, not worth the postage fee, type of letter. I crumbled it and tossed it halfway across the kitchen to the bin. It was a perfect score too, as the long shot fell neatly in the waste bin.

Sherlock was all the way across the living room in his armchair, only a small quirk of the eyebrow reacting to my gesture. I smiled in boastful victory at my friend - _and Watson scores!_ \- and moved on to make my customary arrived-home cup of tea.

I didn't feel Sherlock sneak into the kitchen, behind my back. I certainly didn't hear the rustle of thin plastic from the bin liner, or my friend rummaging through its contents. I think I heard him stretch open the creased piece of paper with the literary rubbish spewed all over in uneven handwriting. I'm quite sure I felt Sherlock's long fingers come to touch my good shoulder a moment later for my attention. They trembled slightly.

'John.'

As I turned around I had already linked the puzzle pieces together and expected Sherlock to be looking at the letter I had discarded. I still didn't expect him to be taking it so seriously.

Sherlock's eyes were open wide, bluer than usual, more innocent and genuinely frightened, trembling irises following the squiggles in the stark white paper. I stood there - tea all but forgotten now - as Sherlock reread the content four or five times more, giving it all way more attention than it could ever merit.

I should have saved the letter to bin it _outside 221B_. My choice of action has resulted in Sherlock's immediate curiosity having been peaked.

 _It's just a worthless piece of paper, Sherlock. Not everyone loves John Hamish Watson. It's alright._

'Come on, Sherlock, don't make a big deal out of this...' I plead, genuinely concerned for Sherlock.

His eyes narrow sharply and his attitude stiffens at once. 'This letter says vile things. They promise to harm you. Am I really expected not to mind it?' he hisses at once.

 _Hey, I'm not the enemy here!_

Well, when Sherlock puts it like that...

'I'm not of your clients, taking the first train over to find us. Taking the desk chair and telling us the story of what brought them there. I'm not in fear for my life...'

'...when you clearly should be...'

'No, I shouldn't! It's just a postal troll, getting off on spewing threats at me. It happens!'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed even more, to a tight squint. ' _It_ _happens_ because you are my associate, is that what you mean?'

I crossed my arms in front of me. Now he would try to push me away, this routine was getting old. 'Hey, mate, I already had a life before I met you, you know?'

'I know', he answered steadily, 'it was a boring one.'

We both smirked; Sherlock was spot on accurate, of course.

'Look here, Sherlock...' I uncrossed my arms and tried to reason with the friendly giant already towering over me in protection, and in a third-degree questioning technique as well. 'It's no big deal.'

'I'll decide that for you, John. Please refrain from your trademark soldier bravery. I will not condone threats being made on my flatmate, just under our roof...'

'...Mrs Hudson's roof, technically...'

'And I will not stand for your misdirecting of my attention either. John, you are my client. Please proceed to sit on the chair.'

'No', I answered petulantly. 'I'm making tea. I always make the clients a cuppa. If I'm a client I'll need tea. _John, would you like some tea? Why, yes, John, I'd love some tea! John, would you like to take a seat on the client's chair? Oh, bother! I'd really prefer to seat on my own armchair, John, with my book...'_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Now you're just being childish, John.'

I pressed my lips thin and looked away, grunting over my embarrassment. 'I want my tea and my armchair', I end up muttering.

'And I want some answers. We can both have what we want, John.'

'I guess.'

He nodded. Quietly, sternly, grave. Despite my attempts at redirecting him, my best friend is taking this threatening letter too seriously. _He's going all consulting detective on me._

 _ **.**_

'Should I be taking notes of my answers?' I ask, still a bit resentful.

Sherlock's intensity is just about the only reason I'm pinned down on my armchair, with a cup of tea on the side table. The consulting detective is reclined on his armchair, cold demeanour attitude when he faces me as he would a client.

'Just for once I can do that', he says, reaching out with an open hand to take my notebook.

'Why would you even need notes? You have this perfect memory, Sherlock!'

'I don't need notes, my blogger does.'

'I'm not blogging about this one!' I refuse at once, getting hotheaded again.

'Why not?'

'I'm not blogging about some guy who thinks I'm some "weirdo with a pole stuck up-" well, somewhere.' My eyes shift away.

'Crude sexual reference. Rude, basic, unimaginative', Sherlock classifies, detachedly.

'Or "a cowardly soldier that should have died in the war" either.'

'Referencing your past. He could have known that from your blog intro.'

' _He?_ '

'Statistically more likely. Subject to subsequent confirmation.'

'And I'm not "short and fat" either', I add, crossing my arms in front of me.

'You are certainly not fat', Sherlock concurs, mentioning nothing about my height. 'I notice you are carefully avoiding the part where he mentions me, John.'

 _Of course Sherlock would pay attention to that!_ I protest mentally.

'I'm not your minion, Sherlock.'

'That was not the expression used.'

'Well, tough! That's the one in using! He wanted to get on my nerves - and you know what? - you made it possible! I was perfectly okay to ignore it all, but you had to come rubbing it on me, hadn't you? Because you wanted a case!'

'I wanted you safe!' Sherlock just about growls. 'And I'll do what it takes to make sure of that.'

'Oh, really?' I retort, angrily.

'Really', he promises; and a shiver comes down my spine out of nowhere.

 _ **.**_

By the next morning, naïvely I had entertained the hope that it had all been dismissed from Sherlock's busy mind. As I come downstairs, groggy from sleep yet, I find my mad friend deeply engaged in some case - _correction: my case_. With a glance I realise he must have stayed up all night, doing his scientific analyses, his laptop based research, and putting data together. I feel bad at once. Sherlock really shouldn't have. He's attaching too much importance to a vile letter, and a plain ordinary assistant.

'Hey, Sherlock', I say, repressing a yawn. He looks up from his laptop at the arrival by the living room door, and briefly smiles as if he wants to apease me. 'Look, I'll get you breakfast, and you can go to bed and still catch some hours of sleep, okay?'

He looks away, disengaged at once. 'Can't. Too busy. Oh, my brother will drop by later.'

'Mycroft? What's up with him? He got a nasty pen pal too?'

Sherlock blinks and looks at me as if I had just said something clever. He won't let me know what, though. He just diverges: 'No, I'm the only one regularly insulting Mycroft. He's used to it.'

I swallow a chuckle and come over. Sherlock is attentively scrutinizing me now. But he does that at times, so I don't find it weird anymore.

I turn to the kitchen and halt in shock.

Sherlock materialises close to me at once.

'You may want to take a seat now, John.'

'Wha-What?'

'You have become exceedingly pale, John.'

'Why?' I ask at last, in a shaky voice. _Why?_ is always the pertinent question when it comes to the detective's random choices.

Sherlock grabs hold of my frame with his persuasive hands and he guides me to his own armchair, as if he knew I had to keep my eyes trailed on the impossible sight.

'A strong cup of tea, please!' Sherlock asks over his shoulder. From the kitchen three decisive voices answer back at once: 'Got it, Sherlock!'

I blink, trying to clear my eyes. In the kitchen there are three faithful copies of John Hamish Watson. My copies.

 _My clones._

'Sherlock?' I finally look at my friend, squatting by the leather armchair, a finger gently atop my radial artery, checking my pulse.

'Mycroft's lab coat people have found a way to speed up growth in their clones. These fake Johns are about your age and fitness category. They will substitute you whenever there is a need for a John Watson to leave the safety of 221B.'

I gasp. 'I don't want to be a prisoner.'

Sherlock shakes his head. 'You won't be. You'll be safe by my side. We can still solve cases together. The other Johns can get the milk, go to work, pick up the laundry... It's good, right?'

I blink, still shocked. 'How will you know who is the real me, Sherlock?'

He hesitates, looking around. Then he grabs off a piece of string that was tying together some parcel. 'Here. You're worried. We'll get a piece of string around your wrist. Only you will have it, so I can tell it's you.' He ties it gently, knotting it. I'm so stunned I let him. 'But I would know, John. Remember when I had my clone?'

'Yeah, and, by the way, it was only one.'

'You're too important. I needed more Johns', he alleges at once. 'These clones are created from a seven years old cell collection I made when you moved in.'

'I'm not going to ask you how you collected my cells, without permission, and kept them all this time... But those Johns don't look a day younger than I am now.'

'Mycroft got them aged, of course, or we wouldn't fool your enemy. They are, however, closer in terms of personality to who you were seven years ago.'

I shrug, not knowing what that means. Sherlock tells me: 'They have each bleached the kitchen in turns, and they keep disposing of the pickled eyeballs in the cupboard, saying it's unhygienic.'

I smile knowingly at that. Yeah, it is unhygienic, but we've come to think of those eyeballs as another piece of decor now. Sherlock shyly copies my smile, hopeful.

'How many clones of me are there, Sherlock?'

'Three.'

'Why stop at three?' I ask, starting to find it hysterical.

'They are really expensive, according to Mycroft. I've used up all my yearly allowance in one go.'

'And how many Mrs Hudsons and Mollys did you get?'

'None. They are not in immediate danger, John. I did this for you.'

'It was just a stupid letter!' My voice is escalating fast. All the other Johns look on unabashedly. They probably weren't briefed on their mission. Sherlock never lets me in on the plan.

'No, John, I'm taking the letter quite seriously.'

I sigh. 'How long do they last?'

'Three days. We've got three days to catch this letter writing fiend.'

I rub my face. 'Can one of them go to work for me? I'm feeling really tired all of a sudden.' There's a vertigo catching up with my headache now. Shock, I suspect.

Sherlock bods hastily. The first clones comes over with a strong cup of tea, and Sherlock directs him: 'John One, you're working today. Get dressed, go to the surgery.'

John One nods curtly once, but stays put. 'Well?' he dares Sherlock with a smirk.

'Well what?' Sherlock looks intrigued at once.

'Where do I work?'

'How should I know? John's pass is in his jacket. You'll find the information you need there. Sarah's your ex and-'

I interrupt: 'Sarah doesn't work there anymore, Sherlock! Hasn't for the last six years!'

'Oh', he looks surprised. 'How thoughtful of her. John One, you'll figure it out. Go save some lives.'

'Sherlock...' I warn. Tiredly I get up and shake my clones' hands, and let them know who I am, who they are now.

It feels odder than talking to myself inside a house of mirrors.

Do I still slightly favour my left leg over my right out of habit then? It's so freakish to see me from the outside in...

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	66. Chapter 66

_A/N: Apologies for the delay. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.2nd.**_

Sherlock stares me in the eye. 'You do not favour one leg over the other, John. What a disconcerting notion to entertain, when faced with the cold hard evidence. You are, however, hypercritical of yourself. And placing you among living, breathing, talking copies of you has clearly brought to head your insecurities.'

Crossing my arms in front of me I assure my friend: 'I'm not being insecure.'

He deplores at once: 'They are your clones, John! They grew up in a lab! They did not go to the war, they did not experience a psychosomatic pain in their leg as some survivor's trophy. They cannot limp around—' Sherlock cuts himself short as one of the fake Johns walks past us, his leg clearly faltering at each step.

I squint at Sherlock. 'By all means, carry on with what you were saying, I'm listening', I nudge him, sarcastically.

Sherlock's eyes are open wide. 'But how—?' he mutters, utterly shocked.

I rub my face. Told Ella it wasn't all in my head. There was an actual injury, the pain just wouldn't go away; but did my therapist listen? Of course not. Everyone always assumed one day I got in my head that I'd just start limping from then on.

'John, how—?' Sherlock is still shocked.

I sigh. _I don't know._ And I'm the doctor here. It's as if the war has become some integrant part of me. It's in my clones too. I uncross my arms and sigh again.

'They need action, a purpose', I comment under my breath. We don't speak openly about this; about how Sherlock saved me. My best friend fixes his eyes on me, as if overwhelmed by how demanding his blogger can be. But loyally he nods. He always minds me, all of us.

'Their purpose is to protect you, John. They are serving their purpose just for being here.'

'So far as they are concerned their purpose has been to tidy up the kitchen and bathroom, Sherlock.'

'I need to take them out', he deduces, with a sharp intake of air.

I smirk. 'Yes, Sherlock, do takes us all out on a walk. And a run. And a good old fashioned criminal chase, if possible. You can't confine us to the flat forever anyway. What did you expect? To keep us safe by locking us in and we'd happily wait on you for the remaining time? Lord, you can't seriously be this lazy!'

Sherlock presses his lips thin. 'I will not tolerate any harm to come to you, John. I found that – illogically – I have transferred some attachment feelings from you to your clones. I want to keep them safe too. You have always told me how selfish I can be at times, John, I believe this might be one of those times.'

I feel my stomach drop. 'What? No! No. Sherlock. You're not selfish. I didn't mean that, I spoke in anger... Sherlock, you know they are going to disappear into thin air, don't you?' In front of me, the detective nods, looking fleetingly vulnerable.

'Lately you have spent too little time at 221B. I wish we could place your clones at the surgery all day long so to quickly build up extra hours to allow you to take some time off.'

I smile to my miserable looking friend.

'I'll do my best to spend more time here from now on, Sherlock. And in the meantime, I've got a John there, working for me.'

Sherlock smiles at last. 'We should find you a permanent substitute in a clone, John. I'll see what Mycroft can do about it.'

I smile back.

 _ **.**_

'Not much has changed at Baker Street', the second clone comments. 'Seven years have passed, you say?' he squints quietly in no time, then releases his expression into a big innocent look, genuine and honest. I gather this feeling that Sherlock is right when he says I'm too expressive. It's definitely one of the oddest things to have a serious conversation with your own personal clone, a mirrored corporeal expression of how the rest of the world perceives you.

I clear my throat awkwardly and hastily gather my thoughts. 'Yes? Yes. It's very much the same. We seem to enjoy it the way it is. I look around, picking up on the small changes accumulated over the years. Small tokens of appreciation from grateful clients, odd eccentricities that flavour the room, leftover clues from ancient mysteries that we solved, and a good healthy dose of dust.

'John.' The other John leans over to confide in me: 'I assume this must be quite a shock to you.'

I blink. _He sure got that right._ I guess that means that I'm a perceptive person, seeing as he is no more than my exact double.

Silently I look back at the doppelganger sat on the red armchair – my armchair – as I sit on Sherlock's chair. It feels awkward to take Sherlock's customary refuge from the world, and I keep to the edge of the comfier chair of the two.

Why is the clone trying to be so nice to me? Is he really as understanding as he seems? Is he trying to stage a coup and take my place? A piece of string around my wrist is not enough to appease my healthy paranoia and I shiver before the multiplying scenarios crossing my uneasy mind.

 _What if Sherlock comes to prefer the younger version of me?_

 _Nonsense._ I clear my throat forcibly. All our Johns have followed orders faithfully so far, and are incredibly accommodating and polite. That's all.

John Two, sat in front of me, patiently waits for the end of my internal meltdown with a puzzled expression on his telltale face. 'You look okay, John', he tells me of his own accord. 'Happy. Older, for sure, but you look like you found where you belong. You possibly have forgotten this, John, but you didn't quite believe it possible that such time would come in your life, seven years ago, when your cells were harvested.'

I clear my throat once again. Before I muster an answer, another John – the third and last one – comes over from the kitchen with a steaming cup of tea. _How thoughtful._

'For your throat', he justifies. 'I mean; _our_ throat. No, it's _in you_ so it's yours... Never mind!' He sighs and hands me the tea with gentleness.

'Thanks, Number Three.'

Sherlock returns to the living room just in time to hear the nickname and looks puzzled at the absolute lack of retaliation from the identified clone. Sherlock's clone played hell to being called Duplicate. My clones are more practical, I believe, for I'm a soldier, with a rank and an army personnel number.

Sherlock, however, is not shy to take advantage of this homely army of Johns, less than loyally. He slides his long coat straight to a heap on the floor – John Two picks it up and hangs it behind the door – as John Three acquiesces to making another cup of tea as his was snatched from his hands. Sherlock sighs as he reclines on the sofa and raises leg after leg over the coffee table, stretching like a feline over the furniture, lording about.

I roll my eyes and leave the room, before I start shouting at Sherlock One.

 _ **.**_

'Who have you wronged lately, John?'

I take a deep breath.

'The charity outside the supermarket's checkouts.'

'The charity', he repeats. 'You have wronged a charity, John.'

'I pretended I didn't spot them. I walked on.'

Sherlock nods, after a couple of seconds, and scribbles down something in the notepad. He stole that notepad from me. And that's my pen too.

'Who else?' he asks.

'Mrs Hudson.' I wait for Sherlock to stop scribbling and look up to me. 'I told Mrs Hudson I'd post her letter for her, but I forgot. She said it was alright, and I did it the next day.'

'The wrath of an avenging landlady should never be underestimated, John, however I believe she has proclaimed her forgiveness. Next?'

'I gave a bad tip to the barista that misspelled my name on the coffee cup at the end of a long shift at the surgery. I mean, how do you even misspell "John"? It's not a complicated name like "Sherlock"!'

'Short foresight of the barista and I know exactly how you felt. Next?'

I shrug. 'I shot a cabbie once, remember that?'

'Let us be concerned with the living first.'

'And from my recent sins... Ugh, I can't think of anything else, Sherlock.'

My detective friend rolls his eyes.

'Think, John, think! You can't be nice all the time, are you waiting on Santa's arrival?'

My friend looks at his wit's end. I feel bad, that I can't think of anything really nasty I've done lately to tell him. No archenemies for plain John Watson. And I also abstained from pissing off the whole of the Scotland Yard and the rest of the borough of London.

'Okay, John, I can sense your defiance perspiring through every pore in your body. We'll take a short break. Think evil thoughts.'

'You think that will help a memory to resurface?' I ask, hopeful.

'No. I think you're severely depriving yourself of some selfish fun', he says, too seriously.

 _ **.**_

'Mycroft has come with a detailed report of your secrets, John', Sherlock warns me, ominously. Well, anything pertaining Mycroft Holmes tends to be ominous...

I'm taken by complete surprise.

'I don't usually use other people's spoons without asking them. I was dunking a biscuit in a cuppa at the surgery and it got over-soaked and crumbled and— I washed the spoon before putting it back! What else did the ward matron say to you?' I squint.

Mycroft conceals a scoff, as he faces his little brother. They seem to be telepathically implying between them that I can't keep secrets. I'll have them known that captain Watson has been in tight places and kept his mouth shut to protect this mates, thank you very much! Well, I don't get to tell the Holmes brothers that, not this time around.

Mycroft has just produced a memory stick from his vest pocket, and he particularises to me: 'I find witness reports much too unreliable. I prefer the cold facts of video evidence myself.'

'The cctv cameras', I deduce at last.

'Does the honourable doctor Watson have anything to declare before I appropriate my brother's laptop and play this?' he holds the stick in the sir, as a bargaining chip.

I cross my arms in front of me. 'No', I declare stubbornly, knowing full well what he's got in there.

Sherlock spots my guarding behaviour easily.

'John?' he asks, unsure.

I deflate at once. 'Sherlock', I address my worried friend alone, 'there may have been a little scuffle outside the pub a few days ago. There was a young lady and her very drunk abusive boyfriend. I had to step in.'

'Could he have written that letter?'

'How would he even know who I am, let alone where I live?'

'You are my sidekick, you are known, John.'

'Ever considered some people might think _you_ are _my_ sidekick?'

' _Nonsense'_ , both Holmes reply at the same time. Only Sherlock is smirking back at me. 'People are not total idiots all of the time', the detective tells me.

I shake my head. 'It was no big deal anyway.'

Mycroft cuts in: 'Anything else to declare, doctor Watson?'

'Yeah. You might want to grab a seat. This may take a while...' I face up to the two worried Holmes brothers.

 _I'm not just a ruddy sidekick..._

The two brothers lower themselves to the sofa cushions, shockingly simultaneously, their eyes stuck on me.

 _I've got a life too, don't they know that?_

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	67. Chapter 67

_A/N: This one is not so lively because I needed to set a few things up. At least I think I did. Who knows? I'm only guessing when it comes to writing... Still only me. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.3**_ _ **rd**_ _ **.**_

'Why didn't you tell me?'

Sherlock's voice comes across eerily quiet, perhaps due to the presence of his older brother in the room. Something in the soft, subdued nature of his tone strikes me with guilt. _I didn't think it necessary to tell him._

Looking down on my scarred hands, my stubby fingers and calloused fingertips, I wonder why I took so long to tell my best friend the truth. Why I didn't call for backup at the time, why I took on another of so many battles without allowing for help. Was I afraid to lose Sherlock's respect, to come across as frail or vulnerable in the eyes of someone I truly respect? Not at all. _Never with Sherlock._

'I didn't think it necessary.' I shrug. 'It was no big deal.'

Sherlock and his brother both give me similar doubtful looks. The older man is stony faced as I start elaborating over the events he must have already seen recorded through the CCTV footage, and the younger is impatient to interrogate me.

Sherlock paces around the small living room like a caged tiger circling a prey. 'What were you thinking, John? What was going through that stubborn head of yours? The man was obviously a regular patron at the pub, going by the lack of reaction from the other customers, used to the regular carrying-ons. He was bound to have backup!'

I nod. _Clever, that._ Of course Sherlock got it right. Soon, three rugby mates joined in on the side of the abusive boyfriend who refused to listen to well-meant friendly advice.

'I had important things to say', I assure, crossing my arms in front of me. It's a defence mechanism; one that the Holmes brothers for once pretend to ignore, obvious as it is on the threadbare patches on my jumper's elbow areas. _The way I see it, they both owe me a couple of new jumpers by now._

'How many more came into the back alleys to hear your say, John?' Sherlock questions me softly. Mycroft knows the answer already, so he doesn't equally flinch as he hears me say:

'There were nine of them altogether in the end, all trying to get their point of view across the loudest.'

'Nine', Sherlock acknowledges, to keep me talking.

'His mates didn't know what the fuss was about, not at first, but I made sure they knew by the end of it. I know they were just standing up for their mate, so I got them out if the way to have a one-to-one with the boyfriend. He wasn't so tough when he talked to me on his own.'

'You aren't shorter, lighter and weaker than him. He's a coward, he got scared.' Sherlock is rightly angered.

'Well, that, yeah, all that but the "shorter" part. The girlfriend was taller than I am. Well, you know...'

'So you two _talked_ ', Sherlock refused to lose focus.

'Yes. I had to make sure he wouldn't touch her again, not like that.'

Mycroft intervenes: 'Give me a name and I'll pass it along, John.'

'No need.' I smile wickedly. 'In the end it was surprisingly easy. These guys know how to throw a punch, but can't take one.'

'Is that what you two _talked_ about?' He accepts my metaphor with ease.

'Yes, must have been.' I plead my version of the Fifth. 'I gave the woman a good contact for support too. I just wished I could have done more.'

'You did plenty, as he's now targeting you.'

 _Assuming it's him._ I shrug. 'If it keeps him distracted and her safe... I can give him a refresher on our little talk whenever needed.' I snuggle my hands tighter in my already crossed arms.

Mycroft sighs and grabs his faithful umbrella from the fireplace's side. 'I must be going, John. My brother is itching to reason with you a cease fire on your bellicose impetus, and I'm afraid I've got the Arabian Prince's missing nuclear warhead to locate.' He sighs with a tried patience. 'I'll be seeing you around, undoubtedly', he says goodbye with a creepy omnipresent smirk.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock has rounded up all the John-clones. Three faithful Johns to help Sherlock defend his real blogger. One would think that to get one Sherlock-clone would have been far wiser, given that my friend is the clever one, and danger is minimal. All we need is for Sherlock to solve his little puzzle, then we can teach this cowardly person how to behave nicely. But _no_ , Sherlock wouldn't have that. He doesn't need a second brain, he tells me.

Apparently he may need three other bloggers – all of them forbidden to narrate the events, by the way.

And now, as the sun climaxes over London, General Sherlock is sizing his troops. We are about to storm the abusive boyfriend's place. Apparently he's a small drug dealer, so I'm alright to allow Sherlock to unleash all his contained anger on the horrible man.

We are about to teach him a lesson.

Of course Lestrade could go there and just arrest him over the drugs, but that would be too easy to reconcile Sherlock's anger.

The detective paces around briskly dictating his orders: 'Number One, you take the front door and ring the bell. Number Two, you grab him as he tries to escape through the bathroom window. Number Three, you have the handcuffs. Number Four–'

'Sherlock, there isn't a fourth John', I remind him, timely.

'If you prefer to go by another number...' He volunteers, nicely. I groan.

'I'm just John!'

'Don't sell yourself short, you are just fine the way you are, John.'

I harshly pinch the bridge of my nose.

 _ **.**_

' _He's heading your way, Sherlock!'_

' _Hurry, he can't get away!'_

' _Grab him!'_

' _Oi, stop there!'_

' _John!'_

' _Sherlock!'_

The mad chase stops abruptly with a simple metallic clank from my gun. _Safety off._ The lowlife drug dealer and abusive boyfriend halts instantly, hands in the air. He's been through this enough times before. He knows just what to do not to get shot.

Sherlock curses under his breath, eyeing my still gun.

'We got him, Sherlock. Is everyone okay?'

My friend nods affirmatively and behind him so do all the Johns, some brushing the dirt off their clothes, one holding a bleeding nose and another out of breath.

'You shouldn't have written John that letter, Sherlock snarls by the man's ear.

He looks confused. 'What letter? And who's John? My mate John? I don't write no letters!'

Sherlock and I exchange heavy looks.

'Let him go, John', Sherlock dismisses, nonchalant, walking away.

'What? No! He's a dealer!'

'Oh, right. Lestrade will have him then. Let's go.'

'Someone needs to stay until Lestrade gets here!'

'Get one of the Johns to do that', Sherlock says, still walking away. I look over to the three clones and smile weakly. _Am I really supposed to boss them around too?_

'Hmm, John Three, would you mind?'

'Not at all, John Four, I'll just stay behind in the cold while you guys go back to Baker Street, shall I?'

 _I know my own sarcasm when I hear it._

 _ **.**_

'It's just an anonymous letter, Sherlock', I minimise.

'It's anything but anonymous. We just haven't put a name to it yet!'

I blink. Sometimes I don't think Sherlock and I speak the same language. 'If it doesn't have a named author, by definition, that makes it anonymous, right?'

His smile widens, predatory, slightly maniac. 'Oh, John', he laments my simple mind, 'but it's so full of personality! It's laden with so many clues as to its author that it contains more information on him than if it had been signed, dated and sealed!'

'What do you mean?' I challenge my friend at once. I may not be a Mensa-grade genius, but I know when all we see is an ordinary, plain piece of paper, with blocky capital letters written on it. Not even Sherlock Holmes can extract an identity from this reversed "dear Abby" letter.

'Once again, John, I must recognise that your constancy is admirable.'

'Ta', I reply, suspicious. And, sure enough...

'You see, but you do not observe, John!'

Crossing my arms in front of me and squinting at the genius, I dare him: 'Elucidate me then, Sherlock. What do you see?'

He swoops in on the letter between us, grabbing it possessively.

'Thin, cheap, bleached paper, high percentage of cellulose originated from the _Eucalyptus globulus_ tree. No water marks visible under visible light, consistent with printer paper. Standard pen, slight blobs of ink on the curvature of the Os and the dragging stroke of the Ts, suggesting it had a previous owner with a heavier hand, who routinely dug the tip onto the paper. The pen could have been borrowed, stolen or lost, by our nasty pen pal; but he's a nasty, insufferable person so it's unlikely that he has many pen giving friends.'

I clear my throat, interrupting Sherlock's speech. He rolls his eyes but admits: 'Psychology is not the most exact science, dully noted...' Taking one deeper breath, he carries on: 'It's unlikely that he was disguising his handwriting, people seldom do when using capital letters. Even more unlikely he would have changed his usual depth of the pen burrowing into the paper or the palm's drag over the wet ink if he was left-handed, hardly anyone ever thinks of that. _Oh_ , yes, of course–'

I undress my arms, curious and mesmerized by my friend's abilities. 'What is it?'

'The oldest detective trick in the book, John!'

Sherlock assaults my jacket's pockets while I squirm to get set free. 'Cut it out already! Sherlock!'

'A pencil, John!' he demands urgently. Either he knows I carry one on my pocket today, or he's way too used to having me carry around useless stuff for his benefit – I really don't know how I always oblige, given that his coat pockets are way bigger than my jacket pockets.

'You're using the graphite powder from a pencil to reveal the indentation on the paper's surface from previous annotations, is that it?'

'You really are in a brilliant form for the obvious today, John!' he says, lightly. Then he halts and squint at me, suspiciously. 'Is this really you, John?'

One can forgive my friend for a healthy touch of paranoia. I silently show him the tied piece of string around my wrist. _I'm the original John._

'No, John, that would be child's play. Just like checking the paper under UV and infrared light to detect other hidden spectrum ink smudges, collecting under the stamp for DNA traces of the sender (you would be surprised how many people still lick their stamps nowadays John!) or sampling a small portion of the paper with high resolution chromatography techniques to get an accurate composition of the paper sheet and this way narrow down the maker and probable area of purchase of a particular lot. No, no, no. I even searched for heavy metal traces in the ink to ascertain if it was an older pen bring used, despite the lack of fading of the colour. No, no, no! That was all child's play, John!'

'I, ugh... Don't know what to say. That's very... thorough, Sherlock. I'm not quite sure it warrants such care, it's just a stupid letter.'

'It was addressed to you', he reminds me, with almost a low growl. 'I've tested it for fingerprints. Mrs Hudson and the mailman's were on the envelope, among several other unknown ones.'

'You have the mailman's prints on file?' I catch on.

'Yes, all except for his left little finger – _alas!_ – and so should everyone.'

'Of course', I agree dubiously. Most people don't even know their usual mailman's name.

Sherlock holds the letter on top of the upright pencil in his hand in a magician's balancing act, and sniffs around it.

'A careful smelling of the paper gives off a hint of saturated hydrocarbonates too.'

I mull it over. 'Fats?' He nods in agreement.

'The piece of paper stood for a lengthy time in a heavy duty kitchen, more likely a commercial establishment like a fast food chain.'

'That's something, I guess.'

'The envelope is more insightful, really. Bent corner on one side alone? It's been on an inner coat pocket before posting. A small blotch from a raindrop or a sneeze over the not yet dried ink might tell us what illness the nasty writer is suffering from. The common cold? A flu? Malaria? If only we were so lucky...'

'Okay, okay, calm down, remember he's human...'

'A nasty human, John', he refutes, dignified. 'Join all the hints together and what have we got? A greasy breakfast in a cheap fast food place, a crowded underground journey, and the postal service so he won't be seen by you; that places him in London, getting nearer to you binding his time, waiting for an opportunity to attach you.'

For once I feel vulnerable. Put it that way it does seem like a lot of premeditation from our poison letter writer.

'Worry not, John. I've got Mycroft on him, he owes me one.'

I squint. 'How many favours did Mycroft owe you at the beginning of the week? Will you have any left by the time this is done with?'

Sherlock shrugs, uninterested, and walks away.

 _ **.**_

Evening is falling over London, but not even the cold night air seeping through the crafty windows at Baker Street can take away that lovely warm welcome of an old home.

I hear voices all the way down the corridor, talking softly.

'Sherlock, who are you talking to?' I ask, curiously coming in.

'You', he answers me with a brief smiles from his armchair. At the same time I become aware of one of the clones, seating on my armchair. I sigh.

'Sherlock, I'm the real John.'

'Oh, I know that!' he answers me, as if of little consequence.

 _Something akin to jealousy takes over briefly._ 'What can _he_ tell you that _I_ can't?'

The detective and mad scientist shrugs.

'Nothing really. Interesting, that you'd assume I'm trying to extract information of a private nature from your clone.'

I squint. _Okay, so maybe it's no longer jealousy, but paranoia._

'Why don't you ask me what you want, then?'

Before Sherlock can voice a question the clone steps in, worriedly, trying to mediate us: 'It's alright, John, I wasn't...'

'You weren't talking about me?' I defy him.

The clone frowns, impatient. 'Of course we were talking about you! What else would we talk about? Football? I'm seven years behind the league table scores, and Sherlock probably still doesn't know three facts put together about football!'

I turn on my own clone. 'Oh, let me see how that works... we can't talk about football with Sherlock, so we'll talk about _John Watson_!'

Sherlock squeaks in: 'In fairness, I know a lot more about you than about that insufferable sport Lestrade has got you hooked on, John.'

'Not the point, Sherlock! My clone is trying to be me!'

My yells are cut off immediately as I gather what I have said. I lower my head and groan into the palm of my hand.

Sherlock gets up, dramatic and feigning hurt. As he passes me, he assures: 'You should know, John, you are one of a kind, and I wouldn't swap my blogger.' Louder, he adds: 'After all, it took so long to train you...'

And with that he leaves me fuming in the living room.

'What were you two talking about?' I snap at my clone.

He shrugs. 'Our childhood, growing up, nothing much. You overreacted, mate.'

'I did not.'

'I'm you. You are disagreeing with yourself.'

I frown, irritated to the extreme. 'Why did Sherlock want to know about my childhood?'

 _'Our_ childhood.'

'Oh, please! You were born yesterday!'

'Fine, be like that if it makes you feel better... _Your_ childhood, John. Sherlock mentioned you left blank spaces in your sketchy memories. He was curious.'

'And you just decided to tell him whatever he wanted to know?'

'Yeah. Of course! He's your best friend, John.'

 _'Our_ best friend', I correct automatically.

'No. I mean _your_ best friend. I was born yesterday. Sherlock really cares. Anyway, he deduced most of it already. He's brilliant!'

I watch the star struck clone of me with amazement. He seems so surprised at Sherlock' s gift; I wonder if sometimes I've started taking Sherlock for granted, and how much of a disservice to my incredible friend that would be.

I shrug at last, tiredly. I guess I need to find new secrets to keep from the genius, as my last refuge of privacy from the all-guessing genius.

'Tea?' the clone suggests.

'Lovely', I accept at once.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	68. Chapter 68

_A/N: Three clones, three days, three people in on the secret (Sherlock, John and Mycroft), three French hens – No, wait, that's a line from 'The Twelve Days of Christmas', my bad! -_ _csf_

* * *

 _ **.4**_ _ **th**_ _ **.**_

The atmosphere in 221B has suffered a dramatic change by the afternoon. No longer just a small cluttered flat in the heart of London, that we love to call "home", it's the vortex of activity for three cleaning obsessed former army captains – Who, coincidentally, have found the pickled eyeballs back in the cupboard again and have come to preach _me_ health and safety.

Oh, please! They're kept in a tight lid jar; of course no one would take them for picked onions and add them to food – of course I'm sure, Sherlock doesn't even like pickled onions!

And it's really silly. Sherlock never cooks anyway.

I lay back against the cool leather of Sherlock's Bauhaus styled chair, as the Johns take turns in their preaching, sometimes taking my armchair. Their voices are getting tiresome, as they nag me endlessly.

So much for Sherlock's idea that a bit of action would make them the more relaxed.

My clones sure can talk for England!

I close my eyes to all the noise in the flat, a migraine is setting in; blurring all chaotic inputs together in one painful cacophony of sounds.

' _Everyone, shut up!'_ a decisive low voice cuts through the chaos like a hot knife in butter.

Stunned silence is its reward.

I open my blurry eyes straight to the avenging figure in the long dark grey coat.

Sherlock swoops closer to me at once. He looks lost, for a few moments, as he searches for answers in my face. Gentle fingertips are raised to my feverish forehead with the utmost softness of a musician, they feel cool and blissful against my taunt skin, but it's with the quiet determination of a scientist that Sherlock analyses the clues hidden in my creased forehead.

He reaches some realisation – I can tell by the way his pupils dilate in innocent shock – then he presses his lips thin.

'Three clones', he mutters. 'May you never cease to surprise me, John Watson.'

I frown, relying on non-verbal communication.

He looks over his shoulders and demands, angrily, as if he was trying to protect me from my own clones: 'John One, update John's blog. His laptop is upstairs, it's still some simplistic password like always. John Two, I need your assistance with my beetle collection. I want it in alphabetical order, cross-referenced with geographical origin–'

John Two squints: 'How am I supposed to know their origin? I didn't catch them!'

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Not you too! Like I told the strangler from Dewsbury who got me the rare Nile beetle, there's a world of knowledge out there if you only read an encyclopaedia!'

'Sherlock...' He warns my friend.

'Fine! The key is handwritten on the back of the frame, if you're going to be like that...'

John Two grudgingly obeys his boring directive.

Sherlock turns back to me at once.

'John, you look exhausted.'

I nod. I feel exhausted.

John Three interrupts us at once, overly eager: 'What about me, Sherlock? I can help too!'

I frown. _Are they competing for the Friendliest Flatmate award?_

Sherlock glances back over his shoulder.

'Go see if Mrs Hudson requires some help downstairs.'

'Mrs Hudson is out of town, Sherlock', he reminds my friend.

The genius is briefly aggravated. 'Go check if all her light bulbs are working properly, John There', he directs without even looking back again. He's keeping his analytical gaze on me now.

Behind him, John Three grumps his way downstairs.

'John', Sherlock uses his deep quiet voice to call for my complete attention on him. 'John, I think I miscalculated.'

'It's fine', I reply automatically. He shakes is head softly; not Fine, according to him.

'You know I only had one clone.'

'Go on.' He looks _brilliant_ , as if he's just deduced his answer, but hesitates to explain it to me.

'You have three clones.'

'Yes, all aptly called; One, Two and Three. What about them?'

'The clones are draining your energy, John.'

'What? And that's why I'm so tired? Oh. Makes perfect sense in some weird sci-fi universe, but you see, there's more than just one Me now. One of my selves is currently downstairs. That means we are independent up to a certain point, right?'

'If you suffer an injury, they will feel the pain, and vice versa. Referred pain, remember? We found that out with my clone, last time.'

'So?'

He pinches my ear, I swat his hand away at once. 'Sherlock, what the hell?'

I can hear at least two other belated protests from the nearby clones.

' _Oi!'_

' _Cut it out!'_

At least two of them are listening in on our conversation. I imagine John Three, downstairs, is wondering what the hell just happened to his ear lobe.

'Sherlock, what was this little Show and Tell for?'

'John, you are currently physically drained—'

'—Am Fine!'

'Are not! Because the clones are draining your energy.'

'No way.' I shake my head, bewildered.

'I'm positive. John, I didn't feel it much myself at the time of my clone—'

'Because you're lazy and you didn't get much overworked.'

'Because', he corrects me, firmly, 'I've got better control of my transport. But you, John, I've burdened you with three copies of yourself, all feeding of their primary source of energy. You.'

I lean back on Sherlock's chair; head spinning fast.

'So today's little chase wore me off, because I've ran, scaled, punched and kicked for all four of us?'

'You also swore profanities. Quite proficiently, I might add.'

'Yeah, but that wouldn't tire me out', I admit with a small smile. 'Okay, then. That's good.'

'Good?' He can tell I'm relieved.

'Yeah. Not as old as I feel. No wonder I feel over a hundred years old, and in dire need of a nap.'

Sherlock straightened up, still with the safe softness he's been showing around me. 'That can be easily arranged, John. Just lean back and I'll take up my violin, and see if I can help you along.'

 _ **.**_

Sherlock comes to wake me up a few hours later, softly and not without a tinge of regret in his bright green eyes.

'I've got a hit on the fingerprints data base, John. We've got a name for our evil letter writer. Now, if you can part with the leather cushion you've so raptly been drooling on for the last three hours, we can go catch this field and put an end to the threat on your life!'

I blink, taking it all in.

'I haven't been drooling', I decide on, at last.

Sherlock smirks fondly and hands me my coat and phone, helpfully. I take them with murmured thanks, while I wonder how did my phone get out of my back trousers' pocket in my sleep. I must have tossed and turned a lot. Surely I'd wake up if Sherlock had tried to extract it from me in my sleep, right? The genius is a known kleptomaniac on occasion, this time possibly trying to keep me in deep restful slumber.

As we reach the landing, my three clones are already there, all lined up. I frown in suspicion. Did Sherlock just give them a military briefing on the mission, and a standard dressing down for getting themselves overworked and me close to exhaustion? They look focused and subdued; hopefully Sherlock didn't drug them. Thinking of it, I do feel a bit too lethargic...

'I did not drug you, John', Sherlock ominously reads my mind, from behind me. 'Although I commend you for the creative analysis of the scientific evidence. That would have been, indeed, a time saver, when factoring in the referred reaction.'

I dismiss Sherlock's comments at once. I know when the genius is winding me up.

 _ **.**_

Cold wind wheezes through the multi-storey parking lot. Mostly empty, to the exception of a few old and tired vehicles, whose owners are not eager to claim them, it's one of the haggard industrial architectures on the outskirts of London, just by the rail tracks, left forgotten on the urban landscape. Far from the tourists epicentre, the dazzling bright lights, and the buzzing city life, this is little more than a skeleton of concrete and steel, functional and bare.

It also happens to be where our suspect still parks his car on his daily commute to his work as a train track supervisor.

Sherlock has shown me his picture and biographic details (as per the British government), but I still don't recognise him, and fail to see how we may have crossed paths. Or what I could have done to anger him.

The genius just shrugged at that. He's had his fair share of gratuitous hatred, I guess.

With Sherlock in the decisive lead ahead of us with his long leg strides rapidly gaining advantage over his four Johns, I take the opportunity to direct: 'John One, you take the stairs. John Two, man the lifts. John Three, you take the back alleys. John Four, you keep an eye put for the security guard's involvement.'

'Hmm, John?'

'What is it, John One?'

'There is no John Four. There's only you left and you are moving in with Sherlock, right?'

I blink, and face the helpful clone who is still patiently waiting on further commands, all faith kept on his commander in chief.

Another of the Johns is less modest – John Two, I believe – and protests at once:

'I say we go in with a bait, and flush the target to the back alley. I know someone who can get us enough taser guns to knock out half of London!'

I stop the clone before Sherlock perks up the more to the idea.

'No need, Two. It's too risky to force him out.'

He crosses his arms and almost blows a raspberry my way. 'What happened to you, man? You used to be tough!'

John Three hushes him at once, conciliatory. John One just rolls his eyes my way, conspiratorially.

That power nap's benefit is quickly getting lost.

 _ **.**_

In the enthrals of an abandoned parking lot, Sherlock calls out my name with a tinge of worry: 'John? Answer me!'

With an eye roll - _great, now you've given away your location, Sherlock!_ \- I'm about to address the distress in his voice when I'm preceded by three identical voices shouting back: 'Here, Sherlock!'

That cuts me off at once! I've never got interrupted by my own clones before, and it's a puzzling experience.

'Someone is missing!' The detective isn't fooled by the echo on the empty space. 'John?' he repeats, panicky now.

'Here!' I too answer marvelling at the musician's ability to tell the identical voices apart. _Could he also tell I'm the old John?_ He certainly seems to hesitate at times, when considering us visually, but can always tell us apart from our answers, either for their distinct nuances or their content.

It becomes so obvious that, in this moment in time, I'm just one of several Johns in Sherlock's life; and it puzzles me how unsettled that realisation leaves me. _Am I seriously jealous of the other selves?_ I seem to be just fine to share my best friend at the comfort of Baker Street (where all of us get our go at taking care of the child genius) but not in the intimate partnership of the Work.

I'm unsettled, but determined not to let it affect me. After all, my clones have a very short shelf-life. I get to stay, and carry on by Sherlock's side in the Work and in our friendship.

Sometimes I make the mistake of taking it all for granted, and not valuing it properly. Seeing my friendship with Sherlock Holmes so eloquently in display has made me reassess it in a very candid way. It made me appreciate it all the more, with its perks and flaws alike. It's a dysfunctional friendship at best, most days, but it suits us both amazingly right.

I've come to meet Sherlock at the entrance to the fifth floor of the car park, just like all the other Johns. _John Watson always comes to Sherlock's calling._

'What's wrong? Are you okay?' I ask first. He hushes me with an impatient gesture, crouching by the lift what's corner, eyeing beyond it suspiciously.

'We've been made. He's got a gun. Watch out.'

At once John Two wants to trigger the action and John Three tries to stop him. I sigh exasperated.

'John, your gun', Sherlock advises me.

I pull it out of my belt fluidly, all three other Johns eye it with envy.

A sudden sharp noise echoes through the open structure. Too many parked cars, the metal frames multiplying and distorting the origin of the sound.

'There!' Again the detective proves he's got quite a trained ear, as he points determinedly in the opposite direction.

Before we can act, all suspicions are confirmed as one harsh engine is turned on and, pedal deep, is set on motion our way. There's no time to get away from a fast moving tone of metal heading towards us, so I push Sherlock out of the way in a desperate move and grab the closest clone (whichever he is; not a time to be picky) and shove him against another clone so they are both out of the line of impact. The gun clunks harmlessly against the floor. There's no time left to escape for me – stuck between the car's trajectory and the waist high inner wall of the concentric helix that connects the floors. I try to duck away from the car but I'm leaning against the concrete wall and it's not enough, so I lean further out. The car barely grases me but the whiplash of dislodged air tips the scales on my balance and I nose hold on the concrete wall; I'm free falling between floors, and it's only at the last possible second that I get some perchance of the concrete wall, grabbing in for dear life.

I'm wriggling, trying to reach the wall with my foot so to scale back up the distance to the ledge, to safety, but my foot keeps sliding off the slick, painted surface of a sickly yellow.. Furthermore, my hands are losing grip on the ledge. The ground is dangerously far away.

'Sherlock!' I shout for help.

I can hear everyone hasting towards me.

A large rescue party leans over the edge grabbing my wrists, my forearms, my jumper, to pull me up to safety.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	69. Chapter 69

_A/N: Hum... no excuse, really. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.5ft.**_

'I was right!' Sherlock snarls at me. 'Having the clones saved your life!'

'Mate, only after I had to save theirs...' I correct, exhausted.

We took two cabs home, one for us and one for the clones (I hope they had the common sense of pretending they're triplets to the cabbie). They all just about took turns to help me up the seventeen steps to 221B, and from then on to the long sofa. The distance seemed to have stretched out for miles.

'That was highly unreasonable of you, John. The clones are disposable, after all.'

I squint at the genius, wondering if he really hasn't realised we've both become attached to the John-copies.

'He got away', I comment instead.

Sherlock nods sharply, briefly – _guiltily_.

'Worry not, John. We shall catch this fiend.'

'Okay, Sherlock', I start, pushing myself up to a sitting position. I want to make sure to watch my mad friend and examine him for signs of understanding. 'Tell me. Once we catch him, what then? He wrote me a nasty letter. That's rude, but not necessarily a crime the Metropolitan Police or the Scotland Yard will take him up on...'

The detective looks hauntingly away. 'That's perfectly fine, I'm not counting on needing police backup.'

'Sherlock... What do you plan to do?'

'Reason with him. Am I not an advocate for reason and rationality? What on earth did you think I'd do? Cover him in tar and feathers?'

I carefully avoid answering Sherlock, for he'd totally take my suggestions up as torture requests. _"Well, you were the one who came up with blood-sucking parasites, John, I was merely helping you!"_

Instead I fall back on the sofa's cushions, closing my eyes. 'Of course not, Sherlock. I expect you two to have some nice talk over a cup of tea', I say, with some degree of sarcasm.

'Like Jim and I had?' Sherlock returns curiously.

My eyes snap open wide. Jim Moriarty in our living room, sipping tea, it still boils my blood.

'My bad', Sherlock corrects himself before I say anything. With a comforting hand over my good shoulder he silently asks me to fall back on the sofa cushions and allow my tired body the rest it needs.

From the kitchen I can hear the three grounded Johns grumbling about not being allowed to prepare dinner or clear those pickled eyeballs from the cupboard again. Sherlock won't let them tire me out until I've recovered my strengths a bit more.

I wonder if Sherlock will end up cooking dinner for all the Johns. The lazy git will probably just get take away delivered to our door. So long as he remembers those _are not_ pickled onions to go on the side, we'll be fine.

 _ **.**_

Hours later, I'm feeling more rested and I'm back to my normal routines. One would assume it was the end of the sci-fi wonders for the rest of the day.

As I come back from watering Mrs Hudson's plants, I'm greeted with a scene cut from a scary movie. On the landing I find one of the fake Johns straddling another on the hardwood flooring, doing chest compressions. The one on the floor looks quite livid and sweaty, and there's a burnt smell in the air. Sherlock stands frozen and looks scared to death for the whole world to see, just a few feet away.

I'm not a detective, reading crime scenes with ease, but as a doctor I mastered similar abilities. I know how to spot a shocked witness, and a medic taking charge of a badly injured patient.

I groan. I start to understand Mycroft's point of getting more than one John. _These clones are not as clever as their original, if they can't survive Sherlock Holmes._

'Captain! Report to me', I order at once, leaning over the victim. There's a black-blue-silvery burnt spot on his fingers. Electrocuted, then. _The first of the clones has fallen._ At the hands of Sherlock Holmes, too.

The clone answers with military precision: 'He was tidying up after Sherlock's experiment, sir. There was a surge of high voltage electric current that crossed his heart causing it to stop. Both the entry and exit of the surge were through his fingers. I have performed CPR for the last five minutes to no avail. Damage to the brain function is to be expected and the effects of prolonged oxygen deprivation are to be considered. The likely outcome is death. An ambulance has been summoned four minutes ago.'

I look up to Sherlock, who has finally dared to come closer. He walks as if he's stepping on ice and he looks like a zombie.

I get back up at once, and try to comfort the shocked genius. 'Sherlock, it's alright. It's not the real me, remember? I've got the string around my wrist, _see?_ I'm the real deal. This one has short-fused two days two early, that's all. I didn't feel a thing either. It's all over now.'

Sherlock nods bravely, but for a second there he looks all the same as if he's about to break down. Then he pulls himself together by sheer determination, and tries to comment offhandedly, in a treacherously tremulous voice: 'Luckily, John, you have learnt in our close acquaintance not to irresponsibly touch my experiments. I... My safety protocols have eased somewhat in the recent years and—'

I translate, patiently: 'You knew I'd be careful, sure, but these copies? They didn't know better. They just got here.'

He whispers, under his breath: 'My brother once told me I'd be the death of you, John. Does this make him right?'

I sigh. 'Not a good time to start listening to your brother's gibberish nonsense, really.'

'Maybe I should.'

I gesture to the living clone, and he gets up and leaves, abandoning the body in favour of a cup of tea. _He's just come back from the war. Death doesn't faze him fully yet._

'You're missing a scientific opportunity, Sherlock', I lure my friend in.

The detective blinks, and finally tilts his head, intrigued; _distracted_.

'Scientific opportunity?' he repeats.

'Sure. What happens to a clone's corporeal manifestation if his due date is not up yet? Will he disintegrate like the lab rats, or what?'

Sherlock looks down on the corpse between us, in an obvious effort of willpower. 'Err', the usually loquacious genius starts, 'not disappearing, John.'

I nod, in agreement. 'Have you ever hid a body in 221B?' I ask, for the sake of it. He blinks, again and again, almost hysterically. Patiently, I remind him: 'It would be a bit hard to explain to the police without an inquest, and he body should disappear into thin air in two days anyway. Think it over, Sherlock, you're the genius and it was your mess anyway. I'll go cancel the ambulance John Two sent for, they won't be pleased.' I get up to get my phone.

'John Three', Sherlock corrects mechanically.

 _Can he really tell them apart?_ I stop short and turn around. 'Oh, so who did we lose?'

'John One.'

'Oh. Too bad. I liked him', I comment.

'They are all the same, John', he admonishes me. 'They are all you', Sherlock reminds me with some newly found harshness in his voice.

I shrug. _I like them all, then. And I've still got a couple of spares in case Sherlock keeps killing them off._

Someone else needs to go to work tomorrow at the surgery, and it won't be me.

 _ **.**_

Wrapped up in the Afghan blanket, nice cup of tea in my hands, and couple of Sherlock's ginger biscuits at hand, I listen attentively to the Baker Street genius as he pins scraps of newspaper, photographs, architectural blueprints, and fingerprint records from the Met, all on Mrs Hudson's much tortured wallpaper above my head. I keep glancing up above the sofa, like a child following an intricate Show and Tell narrative being laid out.

'You think this creep is actually dangerous, then. A terrorist or a murderer in the least', I summarise.

'He's after you. Isn't that enough?' Sherlock returns, incensed.

'Not really, no.' I shake my head truthfully. 'You see, I'm not convinced he's after me. What do I have to make him target me?' _I'm just John Watson._

'You're my assistant', Sherlock reminds me.

'So why not be unpleasant to you and not me? Surely he could come up with some reversed pleasantries.'

'Of course he could. The rest of the world can', Sherlock replied naturally. My stomach sinks at that. Before I can open my mouth, my best friend is already adding: 'He might have insulted me as well, in a separate letter, John. I don't pay attention to something as trivial as letters, not unless I can sense a good case by the way the envelope has been closed, or there's a distinct desperation in the world of the letter S. The letter S is incredibly revealing in handwriting. In typing fonts, on the other hand, the choice of font size is directly proportional to the degree of narcissism or short-sightedness of the subject and—'

'Sherlock, I won't stand for someone threatening you', I mutter, interrupting him, feeling instantly aggravated. He's making that up to sound clever anyway. 'You should know that.'

He smirks fondly at me. 'Same here, John. I won't have anyone being threatening to you, or any of your clones. Well, any of the ones that survive us for these three days.'

 _ **.**_

Early next morning we get out first visitor at Baker Street. The clones are hushed up into Sherlock's bedroom so to keep out of sight, and I take up my customary place at the kitchen, preparing breakfast.

I can hear Greg coming in, as I get the tea ready.

'Hiya, Sherlock! Where's John?'

'Under the floorboards', the indifferent detective answers back at the living room's desk, seemingly disengaged.

Greg comes up with a very unsure grin. 'No, seriously, I need a word with John.'

Sherlock smirks hauntingly. 'Why do people always assume I'm lying?'

'Because you mastered the art', Greg retorts drily. Sherlock instantaneously looks like a wet cat, I notice.

'I'm not a liar! Sometimes I distort the truth, but always with a valid reason', he assures, proudly.

'It's pretty much the same thing from where we stand, mate', Greg still lectures, with a parental sigh. 'And John, then?'

The sulky detective waves a tired hand my way, I'm already joining them with a cuppa for each of us.

'Good to see you, Greg! What brings you by?' I greet the inspector with forced enthusiasm, hoping to smooth his ruffled feathers.

The inspector smiles and snitches at once: 'Sherlock told me you were under the floorboards, or something daft like that.'

'Oh, did he?' I feel the need to protect our unbelievable secret. 'I was downstairs, at Mrs Hudson!' It occurs to me in the nick of time. _That will do... literally under the floorboards..._

'Mrs Hudson is out. I had to use my spare key', Greg reminds me drily.

 _Oops._ 'I ...err... thought she was back already. So, you have a spare key, Greg?' I change the subject.

'Yeah, you gave it to me, John. I kept having to break the door down to save your sorry backsides, didn't I?'

'Oh, right... I guess I did.' I look down on my shoes, embarrassed.

'Want the key back?' our friend reads me. 'Are you trying to keep secrets from me?'

Before I can mutter an evasive answer, Sherlock cuts in: 'I don't know about John, but I'm always keeping secrets, inspector, it's nothing personal.'

Greg looks from Sherlock to me and back. 'You two are up to no good. Seriously. _I can tell._ You are keeping me out, but then you'll call me in the middle of the night to come save your sorry backsides as usual.'

'Possibly', Sherlock admits quietly.

I sigh. 'We can tell him, Sherlock.'

Sherlock frowns at me. I half expected Greg to do a victorious chant of _"I knew there was something"_ but he holds it in, intrigued by our quiet conference.

Sherlock is the first to break. _He hates keeping Mycroft's secrets anyway._

'I got John cloned, for his safety. The clone has unfortunately not made it for the first 24 hours.'

Greg blinks a bit, but overall takes it in remarkably well. He has, of course, witnessed Sherlock's clone that other time.

'Where is he?' Greg asks, discretely looks around us, conspiratorially. He's on board with us already. _Good old inspector._

'Under the floorboards, I said. Under your very own feet.' Sherlock gives Greg a very creepy smile. 'I like to keep my assistants close by at all times.'

I warn at once: 'Stop messing with me, Sherlock!'

Greg is stepping back as if the floor underneath his feet was covered in nitro-glycerine. He looks scared now. 'Under the—? What happened? Are you quite sure he's, well, _dead_ , or as dead as a soulless clone can be?'

Sherlock snaps. 'Don't distract me with philosophy, inspector! I have a threatening criminal to find and we have already lost one in our ranks.'

With that Sherlock whirls around and his coat swishes as a superhero cape behind him. Greg looks for explanations in me. I mouth off silently to Greg that it was Sherlock's doing.

All of a sudden, Greg looks like he's getting a bad migraine.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	70. Chapter 70

_A/N: Apologies for the delay. In all honesty, my mind has been elsewhere. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.6**_ _ **th**_ _ **.**_

'You said you wanted to see me, Greg?' I need to remind him, as Sherlock disappears in the flat, presumably to keep the two leftover clones in check, but we don't need to let the DI know that.

'Whaa–? Oh, yeah, I did', he remembers in a tone of voice that can't quite mask some regret now. 'Something came up at the Yard, just up your alley, John. Though I'd ask you to come give us a hand.'

I look yonder to Sherlock's room, where the traumatised detective seems to have taken refuge. 'I'm not really sure this is a good time, you know.' I really hesitate to leave 221B when everything seems to be at odds right now.

The DI nudges me knowingly: 'Come on, when do I ever come by Baker Street _for you_? It will make Sherlock mad jealous as hell!'

I chuckle at that. It's good to be the one sought after, in an unusual twist of fate. I still double-check: 'Can I ask Sherlock to come with?'

Greg tilts his head. 'There's nothing stopping you, John. After all, you might _need_ _an assistant_.'

I chuckle harder. 'Stop it!' I beg of him. 'Sherlock wouldn't be my assistant!'

Greg gets me wrong, tensing up. 'Don't sell yourself short, John. You're a great doctor!'

Shaking my head, I set the record straight: 'I'm not selling myself short! It's just that I wouldn't need an assistant. I'd need an equal, a partner.'

'I don't care what you say, you still get to boss around the genius child!' He winks at me.

From the bedroom, Sherlock suddenly storms out and rushes by us, immediately grabbing his coat of the hanger and flying off the door.

Greg and I look at each other, blankly. _Has he got another case, of his own? Were his feelings hurt when eavesdropping on us?_

'Are you coming or not?' Sherlock huffs from the stairs, going down two steps at a time. 'I'm not keeping the cab waiting on you two!'

That's Sherlock's unconventional way of accepting the offered position, with an ease that honours our friendship. I smile knowingly, and urge the inspector along.

 _ **.**_

The small glass cubicle at the homicide division reeks of stale chips and hot printer toner, the tell-tale signs of a loyal and overworked officer of the law. DI Greg Lestrade wastes little time to put me up to speed on his unorthodox case. If it weren't for his periodical sniggering under his breath, this could feel just like any of the Baker Street's duo cases.

'Definitely intriguing...' I mutter under my breath as I go through the forensics report.

Greg nods and revises the salient points. 'The witness reports show the victim's heart stopped abruptly. He was healthy, fit and had no congenital deficiencies. In short, this man who had just been left by his fiancée just two days prior to their wedding, died from what appears to be a broken heart, for no medical reason whatsoever. I'd be broken hearted too if I missed out on a honey moon in Egypt with a blond bombshell...' he pretends to think it through. 'I wonder what my ex has been up to...'

'No, a broken heart is not literally possible', I mutter under my breath, going through the report.

'In fact', Greg insists, 'this poor sod died during a routine check up.'

I shake my head. 'Was the doctor in the room?'

'No, he came in as soon as the patient suffered distress. Wasn't gone a minute. Came back with a nurse, she's a witness. They applied CPR but it didn't save him.'

I close the file and toss it over the DI's desk.

'The doctor did it', Sherlock says, humorously. We smile at each other. _Telepathic agreement._

Greg frowns. 'Any evidence to back that guess, John?'

Sherlock assure Greg: 'No one better than a doctor who saves lives to know how to take one with little to no damning evidence left behind.'

I nod. _The man's got a point._

The DI frowns deeper. I sigh. 'Can I see the inventory?'

He hands it over, pointing out: 'No hidden drugs, poisonous substances or foreign chemicals, Sherlock. Our medical team went through the inventory with a fine comb.'

I smirk, searching between the morning log and the log taken immediately after the death. 'You're searching too hard, Greg.'

'Why?' Both Greg and Sherlock look at me with intensity.

'Second patient of the day, one flu jab used.'

'So?'

'The victim didn't need a flu jab. Any jabs would have been administered long before, along with the specific ones required for tropical illnesses in the region. Malaria and such.'

'So?'

'I bet he got told he needed one anyway. People trust implicitly their doctors. Another thing I know is that most people look away from an injection. They don't watch the needle being filled, the air bubbles removed. Know why the air bubbles need to be removed? Because if they go into a vein they can cause a blockage, an embolism. They can travel to the heart and be the cause of cardiac arrest. And that, Greg, was what happened to your broken hearted victim. Arrest the doctor for using an empty syringe, full of air, to kill the patient. The reasons for the murder are Sherlock's territory, I'm afraid, but I'd check if the doctor knew the blond bombshell...'

Greg looks at me and down on the harmless papers over and over again. He even glances at Sherlock; though I'm not sure if he's looking for support or confirming with the customary detective that my solution is right.

'Blimey, John. An empty syringe? That simple? Not a mysterious radioactive poison, a hidden murderer that sneaked into the room, or a complicated suicide plot?'

I don't know whether to smile or take pity.

'Sorry, I know it's not particularly spectacular...'

Sherlock sends the hesitant detective inspector a dark hurry-along look.

'Yeah. We'll apprehend that doctor. Ta, John, I owe you one!'

I glance at Sherlock. He smiles for me.

 _ **.**_

'Now you have played consulting doctor to the Scotland Yard, we must focus back on your case, John.'

I frown. I wasn't playing anything; a character, a game, or an angle. Greg asked for my help, I couldn't refuse.

Now we're back at Baker Street, while the harsh rain gusts sweep the living room windows.

By the lit fireplace, Sherlock slowly leans forward to move a chess piece on the board. In front of him, one of my clones ponders the pieces left. _The clone's clearly losing. Chess is not my forte._

Pacing the living room I gather: 'It's a setback, Sherlock, we lost the criminal, he got away.'

The detective grunts and timely adds: 'And we lost one in our ranks too. Another setback.'

I nod, in admission, but try to be the optimist. 'We've got two more clones. Anyway', I stop abruptly and look up to the seemingly disengaged genius, 'how come wasn't one more of me enough? Do you really think my clones would be thick enough to get killed before we found our criminal? Did you just want them to wait on you?'

They both look at me with surprise. My friend gives me a heavy look and a sigh but keeps to himself. I restart, incensed. 'That first time, you only had one clone and it was obviously enough!'

With more time to think up an idiotic excuse Sherlock lazily ventures: 'I wanted to annoy my brother just like he deserved.'

Immediately I become angered. 'Wanted to annoy your brother, or me?'

Sherlock seems to ponder my question, then opens his blue eyes wide in mock innocence. 'Both, you're right! How insightful of you, John.'

I told my head and cross my arms in front of me. 'Sherlock, I–'

He cuts me off at once: 'You're forgiven, John.'

 _What?_

I huff and puff and lose my speech. 'For what?' I ask the impossible flatmate, one octave too high, voice crackling.

The clone looks on, slight condemnation in his features. _He's taking Sherlock's side! Gee, thanks, "me"?_

'Well, I'm saving you time, John!' The detective smiles magnetically. 'You were about to argue with me, to which I would naturally reply, and then you'd feel guilty for using too many expletives and too little reason.'

In front of him, the fake John gives me a strained smile of commiseration. He's more and more on Sherlock's side. _Active mutiny. Court martial him, I'd say..._

I grump away for a few seconds, but finally I break, tiredly.

'That's not why I would apologise, Sherlock.' I sigh.

'There's really no need to keep bringing it up, John', he concedes, graciously. 'Water under the bridge and all that.'

I will not be deterred that easily. 'I'd apologise for all the nasty things I'd do to the clones', I warn him, aggravated.

Sherlock tilts his head my way, curious. _The genius is engaged. So he likes it when I'm unpredictable, ugh? I'm a soldier, he shouldn't be surprised._

 _How many Johns does he need to finally stop being surprised by the original?_

'You wouldn't', he dares me. But his eyes seem to have turned greener and more unsure.

'I'd lock them in my room', I start detailing. Couldn't tell, not even to myself, if right now I'm bluffing or not.

The clone focuses back on the chess game, undisturbed. The genius himself shrugs. 'Not any worst than I have done to you on occasion.'

 _Wha_ _–?_ _Oh, never mind!_

'Oh, but it's only the start...' I say, vindictive.

'Then what?' He's definitely engaged now.

'I'd get your brother over here. Get my chatty clones to tell him all about you. Your secret experiments that never go on your blog, that drawer at the bottom of your wardrobe that is locked and I found the key for it while dusting, even the pickled eyeballs in the kitchen for him to incinerate as hazardous waste.'

Sherlock acts aloof, but I can tell he's close to breaking point.

'I can't blog about those experiments because I grave robbed the body parts rom the cemetery's older graves, you know that. Molly wouldn't give me any. She claimed I was on a time out for stealing her encephalopathic brain. She kept it for herself and wouldn't share. And you didn't find my key either, John. I've checked recently. It's been untouched.'

'Yeah, but now I know the key is in the flat', I say, smugly.

Sherlock squints.

'I hope the treasonous clones do negotiate good payment. My brother is only too willing to pay for intel on me. I'll take my share of the profit.' He's bluffing now. As if he couldn't care if the clones give his secrets away to his brother.

'Would you let them share such intel?'

'John, my brother is the king of cctv. He already knows most of what I do within three seconds of me doing it.'

'Yeah', I concede, 'but he doesn't know your feelings.'

Sherlock shivers, I could swear to that. But he keeps up his front.

'I don't listen to my feelings, they are too fickle and untrustworthy. Reason is all I need. Your clones would have nothing to tell Mycroft.'

'Are you willing to bet on that?' I challenge him.

The consulting detective and epitome of rationality presses his lips thin. For a fleeting moment he looks hurt. 'You wouldn't', he spats.

 _Check mate._

I look away abruptly. No fun anymore.

'I wouldn't. I just want you to know _I could_.'

He tilts his head. 'Does that make you feel better?' He's in the brink of a sudden smile. An amused smile.

'Oh yeah, it does!' I agree wholeheartedly.

He chuckles along with no hard feelings.

'John, you mustn't distract me. We need to catch your enemy.'

I sigh, knowing the detective will never rest till we do catch the nasty letters writer and reckless driver that almost rammed us on that parking.

Nodding, I ask 'Do you have a plan?'

'I'm Sherlock Holmes, I always have a plan!' he declares heroically. Then, pushing the clone out of the way, he beckons me closer to their chess game. Under the clones faded protests Sherlock clears the board and picks up the white knight. 'Let's assume this piece is you, and this board is 221B, for a minute. This is me, the king.'

I shake my head. I could have seen that coming.

'And these are your two surviving clones, two pawns. Are you with me do far, John?'

'Yeah, of course I am. You are using me as bait to get the nasty criminal here. That's your go-to plan, Sherlock, and when it's not, it often turns out just the same', I say with a strained fake smile.

He blinks, stunned. The clone doesn't wait for him to put the pieces together in his mind, interrupting:

'That's too dangerous for John! I should take his place. That's my mission, why I am created!'

I look over after such an incredibly generous and selfless offer. Sherlock nods at once. 'And there's a plan', he concludes.

I take a couple of deep breaths. 'Say I agree, how do you attract the criminal to Baker Street, Sherlock?'

Humbly he assures me in a deep voice: 'I already have.' And smirks.

Fluidly he gives me his phone. It's open in my blog page. I squint. This new update, it wasn't me.

It wasn't Sherlock either, it's much like I'd write it. Only I didn't. I wouldn't.

My clone updated my blog, with a blog entrance about my nasty pen pal, and what I really want to _tell him_ when I see him. Basically, escalating our tense situation and asking him over.

I groan. 'John Two?' I identify the author.

'Yes, John Three was hesitant. He took your job at the surgery', Sherlock nods. 'Your clones are developing personal quirks to your general personality, John. John Two is surprisingly hot-headed and John Three is a pacifist.'

'You pretended to be me', I accuse, with a head shake.

'The clone did', Sherlock corrects, as if he'd never do it to me.

 _ **.**_

Secretly glad that Mrs Hudson is safely out of town, I shuffle on my kneeling position under the kitchen's side table; the one that Sherlock always clutters with his microscope and a sequential set of pH buffer solution bottles, where often a certain stinky smell of old blood samples whiffs its way to us during mealtimes.

From where I hide, I can only see the living room through the coloured frosted glass panes of the sliding doors. A world of quiet sepia shadows lies beyond. The silhouettes of our furniture all around. My clone in my armchair, peacefully sipping tea. Sherlock nowhere to be seen.

Actually, Sherlock has taken a page out of old detective novels and, _believe me!_ , not wanting to part far from the voluntary target, he's hidden himself behind the living room's Damascus curtains. He's got my gun, too, as he's more likely to see the killer working his way into 221B first.

I was, of course, careful to warn Sherlock that Mrs Hudson will not tolerate any blood letting on her floorboards.

She was always very cross the other times.

We've been playing dead in our strategic positions for half an hour when wood cracks on the stairs, under the weight of carefully pondered footsteps. _That creaky third step faithfully giving us the forewarning._

Outside 221B day has slowly turned to night, and with the curtains drawn to hide Sherlock, the flat lies in an unnatural dusk.

Further footsteps are heard, cautiously approaching the room. I tense, under the side table, ready for action.

The unexpected materialises as a small canister rolling on the wooden floor and wool carpet.

'What the–?' The clone starts, getting up.

The can does its business. It flares, hisses, and a white blinding light disorientates all of us as smoke quickly fills the living room, and seeps into the kitchen.

I rush out of my hideout. Hushed footsteps across the room are mingled with the sound of a physical altercation, low grunts, names being called out in desperation. I grab someone. Don't know who for sure. I get punched on the nose. I let go of my hostage. As I'm chasing him out of the room I hear a cry of pain, making me hesitate. Then a sharp acrid sound of a bullet demands all my attention.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	71. Chapter 71

_A/N: New year, old troubles; fresh dreams, stale struggles. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.7**_ _ **th**_ _ **.**_

'Sherlock!' I shout; desperate, raw.

'John, he's getting away!' my friend's strong voice is heard with clarity, above the commotion. Again he seems to know, with incredible accuracy, that I'm the real John. White chemical smoke keeps swirling around us; dense, unforgiving. Masking us from each other's sight.

I too can just about make out the sound of steps by the landing now, and I haste to follow Sherlock's directive. The criminal mustn't get away. Now that I know, by the sheer energy and command in my best friend's voice, that Sherlock is unharmed I focus once again on the paramount mission. _The criminal mustn't get away again._

In the back of my mind I keep the uncomfortable memory of someone sounding hurt. Am I hunting down a wounded man?

The smoke has swiftly spread to the stairwell, making the steep passage treacherous for anyone who, unlike me, hasn't got those seventeen steps memorized by heart. I think I'm doing just fine as I suddenly bump against an unforeseen obstacle, a hard but cushioned surface heading right against me like a brick wall.

'Aww, gee–'

'John, is that you?'

'Greg?' I ask in utter surprise. How can this be the inspector on a timely home visit?

I realise Sherlock has called in some back up for his use-my-flatmate-as-bait plan. That's generally more thoughtful than usual.

'Where's the fire, John?' Greg asks me at once. Our hushed conversation is shot in quick bursts, adrenaline fuelled.

'No fire. It's a smoke screen! He came this way, he's getting away!'

'No one left through the front door.'

'Mrs Hudson's flat!' He must have taken refuge there.

A harsher sound from upstairs leaves me uneasy all of a sudden. 'Go check on Sherlock! Open all the windows! Doctor's orders!' I direct, launching myself down the remaining of those stairs again. Behind me, the inspector doesn't need to be told twice, as I hear him greedily heading upstairs two steps at a time.

221A's door is only slightly open. No, that's all wrong. Mrs Hudson is out of town. Her flat is being used as a back alley, cat door, route to us.

I rush inside, where the white smoke is only starting to shadow me from the front door. All is eerily quiet among the flowery wallpapered walls. The place is dusky, cold, and the first suspended swirls of whisked white smoke are sieving through the upstairs floorboards, weighing down with ethereal calm from Mrs Hudson's ceiling.

I hear a small noise of glass shattering and rush to the bathroom. As I reach it I know I'm too late. There's a window, big enough for a man to sneak through, that leads to the back alley. The nasty criminal's escape route.

I'm left fuming inside Mrs Hudson's bathroom. The chemical smoke is also starting to tickle my throat uncomfortably. _I can't believe he got away._ Hopefully he got hurt upstairs. He deserves it. _He broke Mrs Hudson's porcelain figurine from the small window's sill._

What if someone else got hurt upstairs? The thought flashes through me like a cold shill and I rush back upstairs to make sure everyone's alright.

 _ **.**_

I come back into 221B's living room with a spring in my step. I can make out most of its contours now the windows are open wide to let the chemical smoke out. Among the familiar setting, Greg looks up at me with a funny look on his face.

By his side, Sherlock is kneeling by the unconscious clone and assaulting his garments, to all evidence. I frown, confused. Greg doesn't seem to be in a state to explain it to me either.

Sherlock desperately grabs my double's sleeve, pulling it up and checking the wrist. The one _without_ a piece of string tied around it.

'Sherlock, who's this?' Greg asks at last, looking from me to the other John on the floor.

'It's alright', the detective says, relieved. 'It's the disposable one.'

I tut away, edging closer. 'Your big brother won't be pleased if you killed off another clone, Sherlock...'

Greg is blinking hard, as if trying to rid himself of a particularly stubborn hallucination. Finally he looks away, dry swallows in contained anger, and blurts out:

'Sherlock, you _didn't_ clone John more than once!'

Our mad scientist friend spills the beans at once: 'John is in danger.'

'No, I'm not!' I protest immediately.

'Oh, yeah? Then how come we've got another body in our flat?'

'I don't know, we're prone to it?'

 _ **.**_

Greg ignores our little argument in favour of double-checking the body on the floor for a pulse. I squat down to do the same reasonable thing. Bullet hole trough his cloned brain, my clone never stood a chance.

Sherlock notices the wound suddenly and immediately reacts explosively. 'No one touches John!' he shouts imperiously.

 _He means the fallen one._

Just in time, I can hear the heavy boots of Mycroft's secret service minions rushing upstairs to respond to the dangerous situation on Baker Street's highly protected premises. _A bit late, guys!_

'I am John!' I protest, humorously, to the panicky detective.

Sherlock points right at me.

'Only John can touch John! He's a doctor and he's John. That makes him amply qualified.' He's about to forcibly push Greg away from the dead body resembling me to a fault.

'Sherlock...' I warn him.

He takes a deep breath. 'John, go ahead, you can touch yourself. I mean, your _other_ self.'

'Sherlock, are you panicking?' I check, chuckling.

'No, not at all, of course not, don't know why you'd say such a stupid thing!' he punctuated his pondered speech by gesticulating wildly.

'You _are_ panicking, then', it dawns on me just then. He's in shock.

Sherlock's whole demeanour changes abruptly. 'Why not? Take a good look at the floor. He's your clone, he's dead.'

'He looks just like me', I muffle my smirk.

 _'That's exactly the point!'_

'Only, you know I am alive and well because you are shouting at me.' _Logic and order should calm down the genius._

 _I guess I was wrong._ Sherlock purses his lips thin as if to keep himself from spilling out another angry tirade. I look over at Greg. He has the decency to oblige my implicit request to swat away the pesky secret services from the flat. "Nothing to see here", Greg directs, in true police form. "Go home, guys..."

Sherlock is looking straight at me with a dark and heavy look that drops like a lead weight on my stomach. Silence stretches uncomfortably between us, and I lose my tentative smile altogether. In the end, just between the two of us, the detective settles for:

'How well do you sleep at night, John?'

I frown. 'You know I have nightmares sometimes.'

'I won't ask you what you see in yours, but now you can hazard a guess on what I often see in mine', he tells me, dignified, before rushing away to signal this discussion is over.

I'm left with a cold feeling in my stomach.

 _And another body to hide in 221B._

While the nasty criminal remains on the loose.

Suddenly it's not so funny anymore.

 _ **.**_

'So, where is the deceased's body now?'

I blink at the awkward question from the unflappable big brother Holmes. He's taken Sherlock's armchair – in their brotherly disputes language that indicates he's winning, I think – and Sherlock has grudgingly taken mine out of spite. I'm left to sit uncomfortably at the hard wood coffee table, as if I'm on a time out from the Baker Street's detective.

He's still mad at me for having thought it funny to loose another clone in under 24 hours.

'He's been tidied up', Sherlock answers, negligently.

'Another body in 221B?' Mycroft smirks. 'It strangely suits the decor, brother dear.' He's looking straight at the skull on the mantel.

'Hardly. One is under the floorboards, the other is in the broom cupboard.'

Mycroft squints and raises his chin. 'A bit obvious, no?' he points out to aggravate the younger one.

'It was John's turn to choose', he dismisses the jibe.

I blink and interrupt: 'Do you want them back, Mycroft? Do they come with a guarantee? Because so far they are doing a terrible job of keeping themselves alive.'

Mycroft hides a tiny smile. 'I'll take your complains up to my scientists, shall I? I'm sure they can come up with some...' he pretends to hesitate 'improved version clone, next time?'

I almost growl. 'There won't be a next time. We're catching this criminal.'

'Doctor Watson, there will always be another criminal out there trying to kill you. My brother's caving in to his feelings of friendship and loyalty for you have made him a permanent slave of worry, have you not got that yet?'

I'm taken back by the candour. 'Sherlock knows I can take care of myself. He should trust that. I worry about him too, by the way, and he doesn't make it any easier on me either!'

Mycroft sighs. 'No need to get riled up, John. There are other factors at stake.' And to his brother he lectures directly: 'You need to take better care of a John.'

Sherlock glances at me, quite innocent. As if for a moment he could have forgotten the clones, copies of his faithful friend, because he only identifies me as the real John. Come to think of it, Sherlock treats my clones with familiarity and kindness even (kinder than he is to the general population, in a flagrant exception regime), and that has fooled me into believing we are all one and the same entity to the genius. But has he really been giving the clones the same open hearted friendship I've come to expect from my best friend? I realise that as Sherlock may have started that way, his relationship with my clones has gained some distance over the short time we have all coexisted.

Slowly, I've seen signs that he has come to resent the fact that my clones are not the John that rushes down dimly lit alleys at his call, chasing criminals with a loyal gun in his hand, or goes to the end of the earth on the trail of a fast moving, long coat detective deducing at the speed of sound.

The clones are my copies, but they are not the entirely familiar John that Sherlock is so accustomed to. Looks can be deceiving. Sherlock should know that very well by now.

And of course Sherlock is fond of the old John, eminently present in my copies. They could become best friends, mimicking the events of seven years ago.

But somehow I suspect that in Sherlock's mind that would constitute some sort of betrayal to the one John that has accompanied him all along.

Sherlock often has a logic of his own, but his heart is incredibly honest as is loyal.

'You did not provide me with enough Johns, Mycroft.' Sherlock finds an easy solution to the rapidly diminishing population of bloggers in the flat.

The older Holmes chuckles at that. 'You were never a contented child. Even Mummy knew you were never happy with your toys.' He deepens his voice to accuse: 'You always preferred to play with mine.'

Plenty of fraternal resentments there, I notice, and this petty jibes are going nowhere.

'Sherlock...' I remind him. _The case?_

He glances at me as if I'm intruding on a family moment. _Why don't I take a picture and have it framed for the both of you?_

'The case, Mycroft', Sherlock resumes, 'was a crude failure on your surveillance of this address.'

Mycroft scoffs at that. 'Oh, please, you deactivated the security protocols, you practically invited him over through John's blog! By the way, John', he tells me directly, 'you are certainly not fat or old.'

'Ta', I say briefly, a cold shiver as I realise the nasty letter has been turned public. Sherlock's plan backfires, I realise, as I'm left humiliated in the public eye for no gain whatsoever.

Sherlock is glancing at me, I realise. As soon as I look over he redirects his gaze, cold and distant. He says, aloof: 'We'll just need to spur the nasty letter writer again. We'll get him back in Baker Street in no time. We'll get him this time.'

Mycroft wonders quietly: 'What could you possibly do to attract him again, now he knows it's a trap?'

I get this feeling Mycroft already knows Sherlock's answer. He certainly doesn't flinch as the younger Holmes details, sadistic:

'We'll publish another hate letter, that he didn't write. Nothing will boil his blood faster than a copycat.'

I groan and hide my face in my hands. I'm pretty sure we've lost control of this case a long time ago.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	72. Chapter 72

_A/N: Yes, I'm still here! Apologies for the inconsistent update schedule. Still not British, a writer or clonable. In my writer's mind, Mycroft Holmes would surely ask me to be one of his mad sci-fi, white lab coat people, but I would politely decline. (Surely no one would ever hear from me again.)_ _-csf_

* * *

 _ **.8**_ _ **th**_ _ **.**_

'You are too selfless', sentences the most generous hearted person I ever had the good fortune of knowing.

I reproach: 'Sherlock, don't get me confused with my clones. Their life mission was to keep me safe. Two have already perished on my behalf. They were the selfless ones.'

He frowns from the top of his microscope's eye piece, with steady blue eyes trailed on me.

'Only you, John, would feel guilty for the demise of a clone ...Or two.' His deduction comes frictionless between our calm moment at Baker Street.

The chemical smoke screen only took four hours to dissipate fully. _Mrs Hudson might never even know of it._

'So, who's writing the fake nasty letter to spike our criminal pen pal?' I ask, turning a newspaper page and feigning indifference. 'Would you like me to do it? I am, as you can guess, a connoisseur of the subject of the letter. I can gather some dirt on myself.'

Sherlock lazily toys with a microscope slide in his long restless fingers. Otherwise he's calm and collected. 'Congratulations, John. You didn't even cross your arms in front of you. _No._ There's no need to have you controlling the situation, guardedly. And also I'd point out that the spewed dirts on the primary letter were fabricated lies.'

I shrug, feeling slightly self-deprecating as Sherlock as so easily guessed. 'No need to come up with lies. I have plenty of truths to get on with.'

Sherlock frowns, as if absolutely confused. My best friend always thinks the best of me.

'John, your mood has been negatively affected by the shocking recent developments. Allow me to come up with a nasty letter myself.'

The man who so evidently believes in me; writing evil things of his flatmate in order to mimic the lurid thoughts of a horrid person.

'Can I have a chance to edit it?' I venture, turning another page.

'No.'

'I've got time...'

'You can aid Lestrade in his pet project cases, thus saving me for the juicier ones. You must take all cases under a Six. It was unusually brilliant of you, by the way. I suppose even under-genius-level minds gets a one-off lucky reprieve from fate, from time to time.'

'One-off, _my–!_ I'll have you know, Sherlock, it's not the first time I help Greg with one his cases, as an experienced physician!'

The microscope slide falls off Sherlock's suddenly stilled fingers, clanking over the laminate table.

'What?' I protest, riled up.

'John...' Mesmerized, the detective points out: 'What if this case meets your selfless Scotland Yard consulting job you have done on occasion for Greg? When was that? How come I didn't know of these explorations of yours?'

'Mate, he usually hands me the forensic details at the pub, when we meet up for a pint. It's not my bad that you never join us. You're invited, you know?'

Immediately he dismisses: 'Not my style. I blame myself, however, for not knowing your recurrent knightly crusades.'

I grump, annoyed. 'Recurrent knightly crusades... Who in the world speaks like that?'

'I do, or is your short term memory failing you?' He bites back, unfazed. 'John, I've been searching high and low for that point in time where you and your obsessive for have crossed paths. Can't you see _this_ is the missing link?'

I put away the accessory newspaper – it's yesterday's edition anyway – and wonder at the incredible detective. Is this the breakthrough we've been hoping for?

 _ **.**_

'John?' Sherlock calls out, sounding unsure and surprised.

I turn my head at once, equally surprised. Immediately I had sensed Sherlock wasn't calling me, but my surviving clone.

It's all the most confusing to share a name when it's just two of us left now. Not for long, though. My sci-fi replica will disintegrate within 24 hours, and he's a man on a mission. As the surviving guardian of the original John Watson, he's taking his mission to heart, keeping an eye on me like a hawk.

It's not like I'm not already used to having no privacy, thanks to Sherlock. It's that I realise how hands-on is my clone's view on protection. When I was a child, my sister Harry got bullied a lot. I always made sure to step in and teach the bullies to leave my sister alone or they'd be dealing with me. I suppose that's how I learnt how to fight, being short and often younger than the bullies that messed with my older sister. Plenty of scraps and scuffles, and never a thanks from Harry, that thought she was as good as anyone to fight and I shouldn't come over. She often hit me, as soon as I got the bullies away from her. Knowing I had to protect Harry against her will, I often kept an eye on her from a distance. I thought that, if I just watched closely, no harm could ever come to her.

That's how John-the-clone seems to feel about me. I'm under his close watch; a stubborn, intrusive, well meant scrutiny devised to keep me alive, whether I like it or not.

Sherlock is amused. 'John', he addresses my replica, 'you may go get some rest. I've got this for the next couple of hours. I'll call you if a murderous criminal pops in.'

The clone hesitates, glancing at me. 'I'm alright for now, Sherlock', he declines, obstinate.

'Take some time off. Go tidy up the kitchen', he offered like it's our pleasurable hobby.

' _Sherlock!'_ I warn him.

The clone shifts shyly where he stands, almost at parade's rest. 'A power nap', he compromises at last. 'It will sharpen my reflexes.'

Sherlock nods his agreement and only then does the clone head over to the sofa. He won't leave the room where the target is located.

I pick up my laptop and settle on the armchair just as the other John lies down carefully on the sofa. Now I've only got one clone left I don't get my energy so drained, but it still feels nice to rest before the upcoming battle. As for Sherlock, it's with soft gestures that he gets up quietly from his own armchair and reverentially takes up his violin case. _He's playing now?_

Soft warm melody is released from taunt strings, where Sherlock stands in an elegant silhouette of a classical musician, effortless and fluid gestures flowing from his bow to his violin. The music deepens in meaning, filling 221B with a sense of home, under Sherlock's expert fingers. I realise that on the sofa John relaxes further, melting into the dark leather with a soft unconscious whimpering sound, like a child finding deep sleep. His breathing deepens and lengthens. His muscles relax under the heavy blanket of blissful unconsciousness.

Wow. All those times, early on, that I found it so coincidental that Sherlock would play his violin when I was so run down. I never complained, his soothing music was welcomed. Early on Sherlock must have caught on to how it helped this old broken soldier and generously timed his music exploits with my need to rest. Sherlock has saved my life in so many ways, more often than I'll ever be able to return.

 _ **.**_

Hair dripping wet causing me goosebumps as the water drops trail down my back. I've just finished shaving and there's a quiet trail of my flatmates voice through the quiet flat. At first I wasn't paying attention. Then I thought I recognised my name. Talking to the clone, then. Sherlock has really taken a liking to all my copies.

' _It's alright, John. You are safe.'_

Why wouldn't I be safe? What is going on in the living room? I smirk to my reflection in the mirror. Has Sherlock coerced a naïve John to be a part of some daft scientific experiment?

' _You can go back to the sofa, John, and sleep some more.'_

As I'm getting dressed, this time Sherlock's words come across as strange.

' _I'll keep an eye out for the insurgents for you, John. I've got this.'_

Oh, no. The clone shares my memories of the war. They haunt him too.

I lower the hand towel with suddenly heavy, exhausted moves. Am I about to watch what it's like for Sherlock to live with a PTSD prone former soldier?

My left hand shakes without control, echoing his troubles in sympathy.

' _No, John, you don't want to go out. It's cold outside. Just come back to the sofa.'_

Suddenly it hits me. Sherlock is not talking me out of some vivid nightmare. Sherlock is stopping his _sleepwalking_ flatmate from leaving the flat!

I sleepwalk?

Really?

No...

' _You won't believe me, John, but you're still asleep. Your mind is playing tricks on you. I know this. I've seen it before, a couple of times, when you had just arrived in 221B. I_ _–_ _I don't know how I did it then. I always assumed the sound of my voice calmed you in some strange recess of your mind, where you kept yourself alert and awake. Doesn't even seem to really make a difference what I say. It reminds you that you were not alone, and I'd never leave you alone to put yourself in unknown dangers. In the end, you didn't go out then, and I won't allow you go out now. I'll stand in watch for as long as I need until you go to different patterns in your REM sleep.'_

'Sherlock...' I whisper the name of my best friend, hair still dripping wet down my spine, but not even that can ever be as uncomfortable as the pit forming at the bottom of my stomach as I see the quiet minded devotion with which Sherlock deals with the clone, deals with me.

The detective was slowly leading my clone back to the sofa, and in response he turns to me in shocked surprise. He really didn't notice me.

There's no pity or annoyance in his deep green, honest eyes. If anything, there's quiet minded reverence. He too knows how it feels to fight one's demons.

'Sherlock, don't touch him, it might trigger him.'

'I know', he says quietly, nodding. He respects my input too, as a doctor and for my first hand experience.

'What you said before, you meant it.'

He takes a couple of seconds, eyes trailed on mine. 'Yes, I've got your back.' Just that. Simple, honest, humble.

'More than that. You said you had locked me in my room before. I thought you were messing with me. Now I think you meant _this_. You were protecting me... Why didn't you tell me?'

He shrugs, glancing at the quietening clone back on the sofa. John starts snoring slightly. The danger passes slowly.

'Does it really make a difference?'

'Yes, it does! I almost yelled at you, because I didn't know _why_.'

He smirks enigmatically.

'It's perfectly alright, John. Spoiled milk under the bridge and all that.' He waves me off dismissively.

 _ **.**_

'I will require your laptop, John.'

He's asking for it? Really?

'Coffee table. Knock yourself out!'

Sherlock swiftly grabs it and starts typing vigorously.

'Wait, don't you need my passw— Never mind!'

I shake my head and turn my attention back to my wallet. It would seem my clones also share my money, along with my genes, my looks and my home.

'Sherlock, can my clone become a thief?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'Not if he's technically stealing from himself, he's not a thief.'

Before I can conjure an answer, the door bell rings. Sherlock beams from ear to ear.

'Get that, will you, John?' he asks, nonchalant .

'What is it?'

'A dissolution slowing agent solution for your clone to drink. Will you make sure he does? For some reason he's grown suspicious of my cups of coffee.'

I roll my eyes as I'm going to the door for the lazy genius.

'And you really aren't poisoning him?'

'Would I do that to you, John?'

 _That's exactly what we're afraid of_.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	73. Chapter 73

_A/N: This plotline has got a bit long (sorry) and this chapter a bit short (same again). Fair warning: still not a writer. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.9**_ _ **th**_ _ **.**_

'It's safe, John. You can drink it.'

My clone doesn't disguise a healthy amount of suspicion.

'Why?' he delays it, holding a small glass vial by the tips of his fingers.

'It will prologue your life', I explain, straightforward.

'This comes from Mr Holmes?'

From within earshot, Sherlock drawls: 'Not me, my pesky brother.'

I roll my eyes at Sherlock's less than trustworthy input. 'Yes, it comes from a verified source, John', I assure the paranoid clone. 'And even if it came from Sherlock's own laboratory super powers, you trust Sherlock as much as I do.'

'Yeah. Well. So did my brothers, One and Two.'

I blink at that, speechless. John carries on, short-tempered: 'And why would the most omnipotent of all Holmes waste time and money in providing me with a clone specific multivitamin pack?'

He's way too stubborn, this clone of mine.

Before I can answer, Sherlock cuts in painfully raw: 'I arranged it, for I am no closer to catching this fiend than I was on the day you were delivered and signed for, John Three. I need you alive to protect John, _my John._ Why would I poison you, therefore?'

John frowns but can't rebuke the logic from the rational logic master. He glances at me in deep considerations of his own before nodding curtly, just once. Then he takes up the vial and drinks its content all in one go.

He politely tries to disguise the consequent burp.

'What now?' the clone enquires, innocently, shiny big eyes opened wide.

Sherlock gets up from his armchair and rounds on the clone like a predator on a prey.

'Just drop it, John!' he demands, cool, a hand open with the palm up.

John Three drops the empty vial in Sherlock's hand. The genius analyses it quickly against the neon ceiling light in the kitchen. Not a drop left.

'Good job!' he offers. Both Johns in the room roll their eyes at that. Compliments in Sherlock's world are usually a means to an end. 'Any pains, aches, double vision, nausea, vertigo, heart palpitations, intermittent sweats or photosensitivity to light?'

With a shiver I recall the referred mechanisms of synergy between the original donor and their clones. _Now Sherlock tells us of the side effects!_

My clone shakes his head briefly. _Nothing – so far._

'John?' Sherlock confirms with me.

'Am fine ...So far.'

He smirks, as if in his mind all doctors were hypochondriacs.

Yeah, well, I've earned that right in the vicinity of the one and only Sherlock Holmes, haven't I?

 _ **.**_

Reality briskly greets me in a darkened room where light and shadows merge blurrily.

'Not taming any more lions!' I announce at once.

Skip. Beat. Where am I? Is this the middle of the night? Early morning? My bedroom? What is Sherlock doing here?

Sherlock is watching me from a safe distance. Infuriatingly calm, he smirks at me.

'Knew I couldn't trust you to keep a secret', he mocks.

I look around, utterly confused. 'Whazzup?' I ask, unintelligible in my pasty morning voice, while rolling my shoulder. This morning it feels particularly stiff and sore. It's just an absentminded gesture but I catch my friend sporting hints of guilt. 'Whaa-now?' I ask, angrily.

'John, morning doesn't favour your English language lexicon, nor does sleeping on your frail shoulder.'

'Is fine!' I snap back, lowering my hand at once.

'Was that grammatical inaccuracy referring to the time before or after an Afghan sniper bullet went through your shoulder?'

I frown on my friend, as forcibly as my glazed over eyes and sleepy face can.

'So, lions?' Sherlock now seems to be in no hurry now.

That's when I finally catch up, with a groan. 'You drugged me!' I shout, indignant. 'I slept a heavy, narcotised sleep, not even tossing over, and all night on my bummed shoulder! No wonder it feels like it's been hit by a ton of bricks!'

Sherlock purses his lips again, a tell tale signs of a guilty consciousness in my friend. 'Not you', he corrects.

'The clone', I catch up. _Referred sleepiness._ 'Why?'

'He was restless, selfless, about to get himself into trouble to get trouble away from the real John H. Watson.' And before I can doubt him, Sherlock assures me: 'I know you, John. All of you.'

'Say that's true, and forgetting the fact you promised you wouldn't...'

'I did not promise it', he interrupts me. 'I don't break my promises.'

'Okay; you _said_ it. Despite the fact that you _said_ you wouldn't drug him, you did.'

Sherlock purses his lips. 'I had my reasons.'

'Where is he?'

'In danger.'

'Whaa?'

'Still sleepy, John?' he smirks again.

'He's in danger?' Sherlock nods. 'How do you know?'

'Inbuilt trigger alarm that Mycroft included in the clones design under the excuse of them being hugely expensive.'

'How...?'

'Radioactive genetic markers at a cell level. When blood pressure and adrenaline levels rise beyond a predefined threshold they trigger an autoimmune response that-'

I blink. 'You know what? Never mind, I don't need to know. Not now. You said he's in danger. He's not at Baker Street?'

'Left for your work this morning. Now I got the message he's in trouble. I phoned your work, enquiring about "you". They don't really ask questions anymore. They told me straight up that you were truant, John.'

'I need to go to work', I groan.

'Nonsense, you need to come save John. I'm not going to be left doing all the work alone, you know?'

I nod, hastily. Yes, right. 'What if he's already disintegrated?'

'No alarm bells for Mycroft on that instance. _Think_ , John! Where would you go this morning if you hadn't a clone?'

I frown, confused. 'To work.'

'John, we need to retrace your footsteps.'

'I thought you said I lead a boring life.'

'We'll make it an exception.'

I smirk. 'Fine. Won't take a minute getting dressed. Oh, and get mentally ready, we're taking the underground.'

It's Sherlock's turn to groan loudly.

 _ **.**_

' _Good morning, John!'_

' _Hey, John!'_

' _How's it going, doctor?'_

I strain a smile at every face recognising me on the street, inwardly willing Sherlock not to have an antisocial meltdown right now. Heaven forbid, we're not even at the surgery yet and I don't want to commit the underground ride to memory. All I can say is; I never saw an underground carriage that empty at rush hour before in my life.

'You are too sociable, John', Sherlock states another of his usual platitudes regarding his flatmate. 'You are too likeable', he adds, pondering me. 'Ordinary people usually are. It's the common ground factor.'

'Sherlock...' I warn. Otherwise he might not even get his misstep.

'You know what I mean', he says, not really bothered. But he purses his lips. I take what I can get with a proud smile.

'On the way to surgery I usually get myself a cup of coffee on that street vendor at the park.'

Sherlock clears his throat. 'If we must...'

' _Hello, doctor!'_ someone else calls out.

'Don't get grumpy on me. I'll buy you one too.'

'Naturally, John.'

We stop by the street vendor while Sherlock surveys the park landscape around us. A few joggers, a few morning commuters on their way to work.

'Morning, doctor Watson! Will your friend have black coffee as well?'

'No, he's got a sweet tooth. Give him one of those fancy ones with all the trimmings.'

'Doctor Watson, your companion... He's not... Mr Holmes?'

The young vendor's eyes bulge on their sockets as he watches my friend in absolute awe. Sherlock's got himself an admirer as usual.

'Yes. Well. Mr Holmes is busy. Hmm. Very busy.'

'Is he... _doing it?_ Solving a puzzle, deducing the culprits, right now?'

Sherlock is openly ignoring his fan, standing ramrod straight as he looks at the greenery around.

'John', he mentions my name, as a coded request to proceed. After all, our clone is in danger.

'Yes. Yes, he is. Actually we need to go now.' I reach for the paper cups eagerly. 'Thanks!'

I'm handing Sherlock his as the vendor is still insisting: 'So how many cases has he got right now? He does that, doesn't he? Juggles more than one case at once?'

I nod, a bit puzzled. 'Yeah, he does that. Well, see you!'

'Oh, and I'm sorry about that nasty letter you got, doctor Watson!'

'Err... right! See You!' Sherlock is already pulling me away forcibly.

' _Sherlock!_ ' I hiss, as soon as we are out of earshot from the vendor. 'He's your fan, there's nothing wrong with that. People care about your work, they like to know, they like to hear about you catching criminals.'

He seems genuinely puzzled. 'They like to hear of how we catch criminals? Why?'

'Sherlock, they are rooting for us.'

'They are being nosy.'

'They care.'

'They are prospective clients, hesitating to engage my services, that's all.'

'Don't be stuck up! Not everyone wants you, Sherlock, for a case... Well, actually _he_ does. He's asked before.'

'I rest my case', Sherlock says, smugly.

'As if you ever did', I mutter under my breath.

'You do realise you are the approachable one, John. People come to you so you'll intercede in their favour. You are to be their ambassador, to plead their cases to me.'

'You get upset by that?' I ask.

'God, no. I expect it.'

I just smile.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	74. Chapter 74

_A/N: Still not a writer; but I enjoy making up plotlines and stories in my mind. Putting them in writing is the easier outlet. When I was a child I used to draw still shots of the stories I carried in my mind. But that was soon used as evidence that I was an odd child, so I had to stop that. For similar reasons I also had to hide my writing and dispose of it when finished. So for a while I just made stories in my mind and relied on memory to keep them running. Family and teachers openly wondered why I was so daft, often looking blankly ahead into the distance. They couldn't conceive that I had a richer world inside than outside. I wouldn't have told them about it; I wouldn't reveal my safe refuge because they wouldn't have been supportive. I understand now the notion of escapism, and I've always been mindful that it doesn't overpower my reality – real life comes first. But when the going gets tough, creating stories is still my comfort. Nowadays I still hide it, not as a fault, but as an endearing secret I'm saving for a few, carefully selected, ones. I see it as a strength now, really, because when the going gets too tough, this oddity of mine keeps me together. I don't even care anymore if I'm not that good at it; well, most days. All I want to do is give out fair warning. There are people who were trained to write, people who studied these intricate meanders deeply, and who have the advantage of twirling their pens in their first language. As for me, I just do this because it makes me smile without realising it... Still not a writer or anything other than myself. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.10**_ _ **th**_ _ **.**_

'John is missing!' Sherlock hisses as an angry tirade at DI Greg Lestrade, as I watch it all unfold, leaning against the cold glass of a Scotland Yard's cubicle office.

'John is over there', Greg states the obvious.

'You know I mean the other John', Sherlock corrects impatiently.

'Well, what can I do about your missing sci-fi wonder? Get a description of John Watson circulating with my officers? How well do you think it would go down when the original man is standing right over there?'

Sherlock retorts nonchalantly: 'Due to their usual level of efficiency, your men might not even spot our John.'

Greg frowns suddenly, and I don't think he's taking Sherlock's remarks to heart anymore. He looks like he's just had a chill running down his spine. He splutters: 'I mean, you have the real John? _My mate_ John?'

I roll my eyes and raise my sleeve, showing the two insecure detectives the thread around my wrist. _I'm_ _the real John._ Both seem a tad paranoid when I see them sigh in relief at the positive identification.

It's been a strange ride, to see Sherlock's real emotions crumbling his stony façade. He was a bit touchy at first, but nothing too out of the ordinary. He woke me up, asked me for help, and I didn't think much of that. Just like so many other mornings. As we retraced my daily commute, Sherlock had become a mixed bag of emotions. Brisk, snappy, as we rode the underground – where, as one would expect, not even the great detective of Baker Street could find a trace of that passenger that had boarded those carriages one hour before. When we got to the park, Sherlock was quiet and sulky, which I misinterpreted as his wish to be elsewhere. I now believe he was fighting down that feeling of loss, because in his heart he has lost John, one of the Johns, and not to a stupid painless death, but to an unknown fate. The John he's looking for could be hurt, scared, fatally injured even. That sent my friend's cold reasoning straight to suspension mode. The real Sherlock under the high functioning façade is turning feral in protection of that John that he got so used to, that he befriended so easily. And I get to watch from the side line, with deep awe and respect.

Sherlock is nearing full blown panic, now, and in some messed up part of my lonely heart I'm thankful for the generous friendship he has extended so easily to my clone. Anyone witnessing his private affliction would think he was worrying over some life long friend.

Greg spins me off my abstractions suddenly, by stopping short and staring at me in utter disbelief.

'How did you do that to yourself, John?' he carefully enquires.

'Did what?' I don't get it.

He takes a hand to his right temple to indicate what he sees in me, mirroring the area. I take my hand up but flinch as my fingertips brush over the warm skin. _What...?_

'It's a bad bruise you've got there, John. Surely you noticed...' he says, sounding worried now.

'I didn't get hit by anything', I dismiss at once. But I'm contorting myself to check my reflection in the glass pane. There's a dark, deep bruise extending over my forehead. Just as I see it I become aware that I'm growing a headache.

Out of habit I look at Sherlock. _He's always one with the answers._ He won't give any away today, but again presses his lips thin. _Guilt._

Greg is more puzzled. 'Did anyone hurt you, John?'

I shake my head. 'No, of course not, I've been here all along. No one came here and hit me in the head without any of us noticing!' I stop talking at once, and search Sherlock's gaze. He looks a bit frightened. _He knows I got it at last._

 _Referred pain transferred between original and clones._ John Three has been hit on the head. Possibly knocked out unconscious. That is, if we are to believe he's even alive. Right now, my clone is Schrödinger's cat; dead and alive in equal odds, to be confirmed only upon actual verification.

This is what has been scaring Sherlock so much. That I'm the punching bag for my clone. That if my clone gets beat up, I'll be feeling the pain just the same, only slightly delayed.

He definitely worries about my clone, but still cares about me the most.

I clear my throat awkwardly.

'I get it now, Sherlock.'

My clone is in undeniable danger. The nasty criminal has him. That means the tables have turned. If my clone gets hurt I will suffer, due to referred transference mechanism. We need to save the clone to save me. Sherlock is fighting a losing battle to save his best friend and his copy.

Sherlock has unwittingly put me further in harm's way than if he hadn't pulled sci-fi favours from his big brother Mycroft.

Greg interrupts Sherlock's and mine heavy gazes, locked on one another: 'Will anyone care to fill me in, guys?'

My head is spinning. We are not sure on the delay factor. It seems less remarkable injuries are felt faster than the more serious ones. Maybe Sherlock should have done further tests. Well, I guess I wouldn't have let him use me as a punching bag for a scientific monograph on clones. Now we don't really know what this transference mechanism will determine in my future.

And we still have John Three's life to save.

My headache deepens steadily.

 _ **.**_

'John...'

I look up through blurry eyes. Not fuzzy anymore, but the headache has suddenly vanished not even ten minutes ago, leaving me with a bad premonition that settled as an icy feeling on the pit of my stomach. It doesn't look good for Number Three. If something happened to him because he took my place, and I couldn't save him as a polite Thank You to all his dedication and single-minded existence...

Greg patiently waits for me to collect my disarrayed thoughts. He seems to know my inner turmoil as well as Sherlock can sense it.

'Got you a coffee, from your favourite place', Greg kindly hands me a paper cup and a brown paper bag.

I didn't even noticed him go and return.

'Ta.'

Behind the inspector Sherlock is glancing and frowning. 'You didn't go to the park', he notices sharply to the inspector. I vaguely wonder if he deduced the wrong kind of grass seeds on the inspectors trouser cuffs, or heard the jingle of the wrong change in his step.

Greg raises his brows, in my defence, to a clueless best friend. 'John's favourite place is that bagel place by the train station, Sherlock. He only goes to the park when he's late for work, usually on your account. I thought you knew, Sherlock. John has been going on and on about those bagels and whatever spices they use in them that reminds him of his Middle East deployments...'

Sherlock looks blankly at the inspector. Of course I talked about it with Sherlock. He must have tuned off.

'John...' Sherlock dismisses cold and offhandedly, 'you may indulge your gluttony. I have some scientific research to do. An autopsy will be most appropriate.'

'I'll help you', I volunteer at once.

'You wouldn't like to deal with this corpse. You should skip this one. Too traumatic.'

'Why?'

He purses his lips. 'It's been stashed away in 221B, in the broom cupboard.' He then smirks naturally. 'When I thought I couldn't make 221B a better home...'

I glance at Greg. Luckily the inspector is on our side. What he just heard is against the law in any stretch of the imagination. It's borderline corpse desecration, not to mention unsanitary.

'The second clone?'

'Naturally. John Two will provide us with much needed answers. If there's something I can always rely on is for my John to be my conductor of light.'

'Sherlock, leave our John alone!' Greg snaps, taking pity on me.

I interrupt: 'Like, hell Greg! I want to help!'

I get up with a spring in my step, following short on Sherlock's footsteps. Lestrade picks up his gun and badge on cue, sure to come with us and join the madness.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock has claimed the bathroom as his impromptu morgue, where he's using scalpel and forceps to extract evidence from the dead clone, shot through the head by a stray bullet in the confusion that ensued at the failed trap we laid on the criminal.

I'd expect that even the great rational scientist would be deterred by how closely resembling this clone is to his best friend, but somehow Sherlock's great mind is deeply engaged on his mission. He's brushed aside any qualms in performing a rudimentary autopsy on the clone's body and he's taking matters deeply into his very own hands.

Or maybe he just couldn't stand to let someone else, even Molly Hooper, take care of this one.

As for me, Greg is keeping me distracted, preparing me a comforting cup of tea in our kitchen. I'm absentmindedly playing with my phone as we wait for the kettle to boil.

And – _good heavens – is that the whizzing sound of a power tool?_

'John, you should read your own blog', Greg recommends, out of nowhere.

I scrunch my nose, letting go of my phone. 'Not really feeling up to reading Sherlock's fake hate mail about me.'

He eyes me softly. 'I think you should', he advises mysteriously.

'Some other day', I adjourn easily. It's a no brainer. Who wants to read negative publicity over themselves? It demoralises even the most overconfident person. I know logically it's not the truth, but something about it being black on white makes it more resounding than, say, lost words on the playground when I was a kid or some road rage from a jerk driver on a traffic jam.

'John', Greg insists, under the wavering smell of formaldehyde from the bathroom. The inspector hands me his own phone, logged on to my blog page.

I take it under his insistence and skim through the second letter.

 _I wasn't expecting this._

The second nasty letter, that Sherlock secretly authored, is nothing like I could ever have guessed. In it, Sherlock emulates to perfection the crude literary skills of the original letters author, _but he actually praises me!_

It's not sarcasm either. He planned it this way, I realise.

Sherlock was adamant in taking my place as the ghost writer of this second hate letter. He wouldn't allow me to write a negative letter on myself.

Instead my good friend wrote a great friendship letter. Definitely something the original author would not have done.

Now the writer will be really pissed off that someone has taken his pen to publish _that!_ Sherlock has exerted a simple vengeance, and dared the author to reveal himself in order to deny authorship of this second, favourable, letter. Which he won't do. That's not Sherlock's plan at all. The angry criminal will just be pushed over the edge and come after us.

And _that_ is Sherlock's plan.

 _Classical Sherlock Holmes._

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	75. Chapter 75

_A/N: Sorry it took so long. Hmm... Mycroft kidnapped me?..._ _Yeah, he figured no one would believe me too. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.11**_ _ **th**_ _ **.**_

'Sherlock, this is one time I wouldn't expect you to be messing around with my jumpers. And why do you keep destroying them? What are you, a vigilante misguided vegan on a anti-wool shearing crusade, all of a sudden?'

The detective looks up from his microscope, straight at me. He doesn't appear fazed at all.

'Memento mori, John', he tells me, calmly.

I frown. What's that? _Latin?_

 _Oh_. My rudimentary Latin knowledge rushes back to me. A souvenir of the dead. As a doctor I was no less fascinated than most by the Victorian era souvenirs of the deceased, often taking the shape of pocket charms carrying the pieces of bones of a reputed saint, or wax death masks of a young wife for a mourning husband, or at times prompting the dearly departed in elaborate photographic studio productions to generate postcards to break the news to friends and acquaintances. Sherlock didn't mean _that_ , of course. In a more general sense of the expression, he vowed to keep sake a memory of our collective mortality by keeping a souvenir from John Two – his jumper.

I decide not to qualify Sherlock's actions based on this incident alone.

Or to secretly think of him as clingy.

Coming over to the kitchen table where the scientific detective grasps at metaphorical deductive straws, desperate to find our kidnapped clone, I know it's my job to ask: 'How can I help, Sherlock? I want to help.'

He smirks gently, with no derision. Of course he knew I'd help. He can always count on me for help.

'I'm analysing trace residues of the killer in the jumper. We mustn't depend on luck and the killer's timing.'

The great detective of Baker Street does not rely on come-get-me-if-you-dare plans alone. Sherlock's incredible gifts are allowing him to trace the criminal, using Loccard's principle of interchange. Just before the clone died, there was a scuffle. There may have been a transfer of dusts, spores, fluids, or other material from the killer to the victim. I mean, apart from the obvious, not-overlooked one: the fatal bullet.

I focus on Sherlock's work with a sense of relief. This is great, because having Sherlock exert crude revenge methods on the guy was worrisome, to say the least. Sherlock is not one to let a little thing like morality keep him from achieving an end. This way we can hand over the killer to the detective inspector, over the death of... _oh, right_. He was a clone. We can't talk about the clones. Absolute secrecy is required, and anyway who in their right mind would believe us? Clones don't have a legitimate claim as individuals under the common law.

John Two may never be properly avenged.

The thought is troubling, for I too feel like I lost a friend, in a odd, lopsided manner.

'John.' Sherlock calls my attention over some sample on the lit microscope. I lean over, curiously, adjusting the focus to my eyesight. I can sense my friend trailing his eyes on me, raptly, as usual, thinking I won't notice. Whatever he deduced of me while I study his evidence, he keeps to himself. But I can just about sense his telltale firm press of lips as I inch away from the microscope.

'What am I looking at, Sherlock?'

'A round piece of paper, about two millimetres in diameter. Lustrous, good quality paper.'

'Well, I saw _that_ ', I protest, frowning at the laboratory equipment. And I didn't even need a microscope to get that much.

'I believe you read my monograph on the different types of paper quality and their choice of typical use by public services? I had it up on my blog last month. I believe you gave it a good review, John, as appropriate.'

 _Err... read it? No, mate, I just skimmed through. Was asleep before the third paragraph. The nice review was a kind white lie._

'I... hmm... Yes, right. Fascinating stuff there, Sherlock.'

He senses something, makes his deductions, and just about growls at me: 'This sample comes from a train ticket, handled by an old-fashioned official. It got pierced through upon check and this tiny circle of paper is the remnant of that train ticket.'

I blink. 'Wow. That's awesome, I guess. Can you tell where the ticket holder was heading?'

Sherlock looks at me like I'm speaking in tongues now. 'John', he impatiently explains, 'this piece of paper places the criminal at a train station or thereabouts.'

'Or he's recently been on a train to somewhere.'

Sherlock smirks confidently. 'With one train ticket checked? Sure! But I've got three tiny circles of paper altogether, John. Do you know what this means?'

'He likes trains? Does trainspotting?'

My friend rolls his eyes. 'Think of all the things we know of him already, John. Join all the clues and what do you get?'

'I dunno', I deflate, at last.

'He's seen you, talked to you before. Knows your way to work at the surgery. Your path, your schedules, your habits. He knows where you live, and that you work with me, share my cases on occasion.'

I interrupt at once: 'Sherlock, you promised me you wouldn't go take risky cases on your own!'

'Worry not, John, I rely on your dependability. Now, focus. The derelict parking lot, who would know of such place, so convenient for a trap? Your underground ride, all those people greeting you casually; John, you are a chatty stranger to them – who else have you been talking to? Greg Lestrade, bringing you cases and bribing you with fancy cups of coffee. And, finally, this evidence of train tickets.' Sherlock gets up, energetically, like a big cat ready to jump on his prey. I don't know what we're doing, but I get up just as fast. He finishes, victoriously: 'John, we're going for a coffee.'

I blink. 'What, now?'

I nods once, sharply. 'No time to lose. We've got John Three to rescue!'

We dash off the kitchen door, I still don't have a clue where we're going.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock Holmes works several angles at once. It's therefore little surprise as he updates me on the backseat of one of London's black cabs of his other doings. Sherlock has collected and analysed DNA from the bullet in my second clone's head – such was the primary goal of the second clone's homemade version of an autopsy. Sherlock has then remorselessly hacked the Scotland Yard data base from my borrowed laptop (no remorse at all, nope), and ran the mysterious DNA profile against known DNA samples from convicted criminals. He's just found a match, according to the app on his phone. (No idea where you get such phone apps, I think Sherlock creates them himself.)

Sherlock has finally got the name of the one pen pal who has destroyed our peace at Baker Street. The one we're heading towards, intent on saving the third clone from.

From then on, it was as easy for Sherlock Holmes as being the baby brother of the British government's prime hacker. Mycroft was only too thrilled to help – from a certain distance and behind his solid mahogany desk at his underground bunker, as the elder Holmes does best. Mycroft has provided Sherlock more intimate levels of information on the subject as we near our destination. Information on where he lives, what are his memberships to social groups, where was he born, how much is his electricity bill, how many times a week he orders take away. Sherlock's got the man's whole life story, his current address and job; he's even found an unpaid dentist visit and a few parking tickets.

Turns out I do know him. He's the sort of person you can speak to every single day, but never recall having done so. He'd never have made it to my short list of suspects.

 _Hidden in plain sight._

 _Invisible behind the uniform._

 _A façade rather than an individual._

The bad guy works at a station cafe where I sometimes get a bagel and a coffee on the go, on my way to the surgery. I take the train it suits me best due to the rush hour and this neat little coffee house is just inside the train station. This is the place I told Greg about. _I'm really going to lament this. I was really into those bagels._

I remember him now. He's a simple employee I've always treated politely, but perhaps I didn't pay him enough attention. I remember now he has tried to get me to ask the great Sherlock Holmes to take his case. Regretfully, I told him, instead, to go to the police with his story. I had my reasons.

Sherlock had an aggravated flu at the time, that he completely disregarded, with the same recklessness as he approaches any sluggishness from his "transport". As a doctor I knew there was a serious chance of it spreading to his lungs, developing complications such as pneumonia. Also, it was a case the police would be sure to take. Simple case, open and shut. It really didn't require Sherlock's deductive powers.

 _Only the police didn't take the case._ That's one explanation to the guy's resentment. _Or he never even went to the police._ I don't know. I should have followed up on it. I guess my patient's antics and a regular fulltime job made me forget simple courtesy.

At this point the bagel shop criminal thinks I see myself as a big shot, too important to take a petty case from him. He thinks I turned him away when he needed my help, out help.

 _He's disgruntled._ He made up accusations in a nasty letter.

 _And he's a vindictive sod._

No, it can't be just that. Something in his life must have taken a turn for the worse, driving him over the edge. He has become violent, at the parking lot. From then on it escalated fast. He had a gun, at Baker Street. He shot my clone in the confusion at 221B. Through the smoke curtain he might not even have known of his success.

And then after all this; he saw my clone on his way to work – _John Watson is alive!_

Now, the fake letter got the guy's attention for sure, but instead of coming back to us over that, essentially falling in Sherlock's trap, he cut corners and got hold of who he thought was John Watson. Innocently getting a bagel and coffee at the station, on his way to the surgery – because I (the original John Watson) still don't want to go to work, and Sherlock still won't let me.

The audacious criminal kidnaps the clone. But by now I'm not the only one he's got a score to settle with.

The real John and the only Sherlock need to go on a rescue mission of the remaining clone. It's the least we can do.

 _ **.**_

'Keep close, John. We're moving in on a trap.'

 _Tell me about it! I can feel in all the way down to my bones, Sherlock._

'I'm not going anywhere', I try to reason with my friend's growing anxiety. Like I expected he won't show any signs of listening to me, seemingly focused on our whereabouts.

'This is all your fault, by the way.'

Our footsteps splash about in the stagnated rain and sewerage puddles of a dark back alley, surrounded by tall brick walls, mostly topped with barbed wire and anti-climb paint. Ominous shadows are cast down from every angle beneath the recently lit streetlamps, the night is falling over the city.

'My fault-? How do you figure that?'

Sherlock hunches himself further deep into his long coat. It's damp and cold as we search the back alleys behind the train station for the suspect, that upon sporting our arrival dashed off through the back door. We lost him even though we were in immediate hot pursuit, for he has the advantage of knowing better this territory. A war zone, I'd call it without holding back. What Sherlock and I are doing, without waiting for backup, is reckless and dangerous.

'Its your fault, John', Sherlock insists. 'If you hadn't persisted in that inadequate, boring, disease-riddled day job at the surgery, none of this would have happened.'

I'm so stunned I almost stop short. _Almost_. It's far too cold to stop, and we're on an important mission.

'There are bills to pay', I grump, behind Sherlock's back. Not like he'll listen anyway.

'You could get another job. One that pays more. One that you can take time off. One that doesn't require you to leave the house all day, and board hateful undergrounds and trains full of common people.'

'People like me?' I smirk.

He glances back at me as if I had said the most preposterous thing. _Ta!_

'Sherlock, in a grown-up. This is what grown-ups do! And I'm a bloody good doctor too.'

'Yes', he replies curtly, 'but do I really need to share you with all of London?'

I blink. Is this what it's all about? Sherlock feels lonely? I– I guess I've been neglecting the needy genius, too preoccupied with living up to the standards of a boring, uneventful life.

Now he's had the taste of four Johns, he's taken a liking to having me around.

'Yes, Sherlock. You need to share me with London. I'm not a possession', I say, adamantly. 'However I recognise you're right when–'

I never get to finish what basically amounts to my apologies to my best friend. I take a hands-on approach instead as the first shots are fired in our general direction. Grabbing Sherlock by the coat collar I yank him down, behind a collection of waste bins and empty oil drums. Little protection against the ferocious hot steel of the bullet showering around us.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	76. Chapter 76

_A/N: I don't plan my stories in advance (Obvious!) I just add scenes and see where it leads. (Fortuitous!) This one lead just right to a cliché. (Not a first!) Sorry about that. Hope it's not too cringe-worthy. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.12**_ _ **th**_ _ **.**_

'We need to take higher ground', I suggest at once. As I expected, taking hiding from a shower of enemy bullets – in a dingy back alley with no visible exits by my side as night falls upon us and we can't discern the location of the shooter, turned from nasty pen pal to killer in record time – Sherlock has no objection.

'There!' the lanky detective points to a hidden, shadowy corner of the alley. He found a way out. Another bullet whizzes past his outstretched arm and he instinctively recoils, just in time. Then the alley falls eerily silent, as if the shooter is waiting for our next mistake, exposing ourselves to his aim, or worse, moving to a new location from where he can hit us.

Meanwhile I search for the way out Sherlock has spotted. A small, rusty man-hole type of ladder creeps up the side of the brick wall, at a corner recess. It seems to lead higher up into the dark night. As I wonder where to, we feel the ground shaking and hear the galloping sound of a train fast approaching on its tracks, upwards from where we currently stand.

These brick walls, they are a part of the arched structure that protects warehouses of some abandoned industries. Atop lie the train tracks of this Victorian time construction, still in use right now. It's the night service train that crosses the air at high speed above us.

It's also our way out of this trap we got ourselves into.

'We need a distraction so to get on that ladder', Sherlock admits tensely, looking around.

'You go ahead, I'll keep him busy', I volunteer at once. _I'll do anything to keep my friend safe._

'Don't be an idiot, I wouldn't leave you behind', he snaps fiercely.

Taking matters into his own hands, Sherlock grabs hold of the rubbish around us. He lets out a victorious huff when he spots a crumpled paper bag with a flour brand logo. It's not completely empty, I see as he checks. Next the inventive detective leans over to the boiler exhaust pipe near us that spouts water vapour swirling clouds into the alley. I tense up. This will be The Silliest Get Away if it indeed works, and at the same time we need to be incredibly quick and faithful.

Sherlock pours the remnants of flour over the mouth of the boiler pipe. They are immediately expelled into the night air, dispersed in a snowball effect around us. Clumps of soggy, musky flour that detract attention from us if not camouflage is from our shooter's attention.

We race to the rusty ladder and rush upwards to our daring escape.

There are no bullets chasing us but we distinctly hear the thudding sound of boots as the criminal takes off after us. By the sound of it, he's gaining on us too.

Then the footsteps sound stops abruptly. I know better than to believe that our pursuer has given up. Instinctively I know he's pointing his gun right at us, slowly pulling the trigger...

The whole thing gets rudely interrupted by a flying object – a knife perhaps – that eases past me and Sherlock and plunders to the dark abuse bellow. We hear a belated cry of pain.

I look up in absolute shock.

'Nice work, John Three', Sherlock states calmly, being the first to recuperate from the shock.

 _John has got a hell of an aim._

'Hey, we thought he had kidnapped you!' I protest at the clone that materialised in the train line above, out of nowhere. Not that I didn't want him safe, it's just that I didn't expect him to come and save us!

The clone smirks, amused. 'What else did you expect? You were taking forever, after all. And I'm a former army soldier, for crying out loud!'

I glance at Sherlock. That settles it. _I'm the most surprised out of the two of us._

The detective urges the clone to move ahead, and confides directly to me: 'Chandler might still come back, we need to–'

Speaking of the devil, they say. The criminal pops up from the tracks behind us, gun in hand, smirk wide on his face.

Behind me, I sense the clone himself hides behind a power switch box.

Chandler inches closer, holding the gun with a precise aim at my heart. I gulp drily as I see no sign of hesitation in his face and manners. He's ready to go through with this vengeance.

'I'm sorry', I say, and I mean it. At my side, Sherlock keeps absolutely still but huffs out an indignant grunt. 'I mean it', I insist, 'I should have at least checked whether you had for the help you needed, Chandler. You asked me for help and I failed to provide it. The truth is, I got distracted. I let you fall through the cracks.'

He's too out of reach, I realise, as I see his expression morph into hatred. 'You didn't think that I was important then, John. That I mattered. Do I matter enough now to have your attention? Isn't it funny how I need a gun to get your undivided attention?'

Sherlock selflessly tries to get the aim of that unsteady gun on himself by lying easily: 'I turned you away, Chandler. John told me your case. Not good enough. It was I who decided it wasn't worthwhile.'

The lie may have pierced the coldblooded killer's armour, for he now shakes from head to toe. With a gun trailed on me, I just hope Sherlock knows very well what he's doing.

'Never mind him. He's lying', I set the record straight. 'To protect me.'

It's too much and Chandler snaps. 'Shut up!' he tells. 'Shut up! The two of you!'

That's the precise moment Sherlock lounges forward to grab the gun, Chandler is not fully focused on the deadly weapon. Immediately I follow my friend's lead.

Sherlock gets there first. He's grabbing the gun by the hot barrel as I reach them. Chandler pretends to give in to Sherlock's persuasion giving in easily – too easily – before he suddenly takes the gun back and whacks me in the head with it. Stunned, I try to keep fighting but the world sways violently and I fall on my knees over the cold, hard metal of the rail tracks, as Sherlock faces the killer alone.

I blink and Chandler is above me, mercilessly tying my wrists to the cold metal beam of the rail tracks. Where's Sherlock?

I blink again and Sherlock is unsteadily getting up from the ground in all fours as Chandler abandons me and, using the butt of his gun, he whacks the dizzy detective with it. Sherlock loses balance, collapsing backwards, but there's nothing there for him to lean against, just the dark night air, and he falls backwards unassisted.

'Sherlock!' My frightened scream pierces the crisp, cold night.

Only then I see it. His hands, using on to the balcony, losing grip at every passing moment. Chandler sees it too, the detective dangling from the edge, desperately holding on for dear life. He approaches the scene, a gelid, twisted smirk spreading on his face as he decides to speed up the fall of the mighty detective...

Chandler leans over the edge, smirk in place and a witty remark ready to depreciate the loser when the tables turn. Out of the shadows, the bulky, short army soldier clone runs through the distance separating them and, just as the criminal turns in surprise, John Three tackles him with a strong impact.

They fall against the balcony, losing balance. For one of them it means a fall. For the other... it's the shock of a temporary clone's life.

'Oh', he comments, as he could have just said "my bad", looking over the railing and tilting his head to the side. 'He'll probably live', he finally decides on, without much care. Instead he focuses on the dangling detective.

I can see Sherlock's hands are slipping, as he desperately claws to hold on to the ledge. Finally my clone lunges forward – _gee, could you be any slower?_ – and immediately grabs a secure hold of the detective's wrists.

Even as he struggles for perchance on the brick work, hanging from a balcony at a perilous height, inches away from possible death, the detective can't stop _deducing_. He locks his intense gaze on the exposed wrists of the man reaching out to hold him safely.

'You're not the real John!' he says.

'He's a bit tied up at the moment', the clone excuses me. Then he adds: 'He sends his love, though.'

From a desperate assisted climb, Sherlock snaps: 'You should be protecting John! That's why you were created!'

'And let you fall to your death? Never!' he vows, assuredly. From my eavesdropping, I nod to no-one. The clone is doing the right thing by saving Sherlock.

Too bad or just might cost me my life. I can feel the steal tremors from an incoming train on the line.

But if the clone, the one that Sherlock has adjusted so well to having the presence at Baker Street, keeps taking the life prolonging serum, it might still be okay if _I_ , the real John Watson, don't make it out of here tonight. I have a legacy and someone to take up my role.

It's little comfort, though, as I hear the train speeding at a distance.

Sherlock is being pulled up to safety on the other side of the tracks. I take a deeper sigh of relief, one that ignores my own predicament. The detective is back on solid ground and he scrambles inelegantly to his hands and feet, as if he was still feeling dizzy from the heights he dangled from. By his side the soldier leaves him to focus on his next priority, rushing to me, without wasting his time letting Sherlock in on the events of this side of the tracks. Sherlock is a certified genius, though, and as such, he gets it all on his own. He too rushes forward with raw desperation imprinted in his features.

Here I am, playing the damsel in distress role of done 8mm reel from the silent era films. Bound to the steel racks of an over ground stretch of railway lines, an incoming train inching closer with every passing second.

The Baker Street's double rushes to untie me, with determined gestures that defy the imminent danger they're putting themselves in, in order to save me. I guess they can still walk away. I wouldn't blame them. I'd join them if I could.

Desperate hands wrestle the ties and knots around my wrists and ankles, roughly. Somehow they don't seem to be making enough headway with their intent efforts.

John Three's blond hair glistens under the moonlight as he briskly glances to the end of the tracks. I follow his gaze. The blurry luminous input of the train's headlights is now visible at a distance, edging ever closer At high speed, drenching the night like a floodlight.

'Hurry, John!' Sherlock urges, desperation tainting his voice, making it coarse, raw. They manage to free my legs but the restraints around my wrists are not easing in the slightest. I'm tied to my deathbed, and it's ruddy uncomfortable too.

'It should be me!' the clone claims, never slowing or stopping our fight against destiny.

I wonder if he'll feel when that train gets too close to me.

I shake my head. Optimist is the only way out now. They'll pull me out of here. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are the best rescue team in London.

The clanking of the engine over the metal rails is increasing, beating steadily faster than my heartbeats, drumming in my ears. The steal vibrates under the several tons of pressure the train exerts on it. Even if the driver saw me, and attempted to stop, there wouldn't be enough distance to completely halt. I gulp drily.

Above us, as I lay on the train tracks, I can see the tiny static electricity sparks firing up along the overhead power lines, releasing the energy from the income train. They remind me of fireworks and I focus on them – on their eerie beauty – as my rescuers grow the more frantic.

Suddenly something gives and I'm yanked out of the rails forcibly, desperately. Not a second afterwards, it seems, the train storms by us in a noisy, rustling entropic force of steel and raw energy. I'm left breathless, desperately trying to gulp down oxygen to my starved lungs, grasping the meaning of survival against all odds.

'John...' Sherlock calls out, shocked.

I turn to John; the other John, that we all care about. He's exhibiting the first signs of clone dissolution.

No, that can't be right.

He's had the life prolonging serum.

'Sherlock...'

By my side the detective shakes his head, in absolute puzzlement.

My clone appeases us immediately: 'Am I vanishing? Oh, this is wicked! Don't forget I outlasted all the others! Don't look like that, John, I don't feel a thing. And, honestly, it's not a bad time to go.' And to Sherlock directly, he says: 'Don't be upset with Mycroft, Sherlock. We're all in the trial phase, it's all very experimental. I don't believe he's tricked you about the serum.'

'I'll take this up with my brother', Sherlock promises darkly.

'Yeah, I know you will', the clone reads easily, amused. 'Just don't forget he's your brother.'

'You say that like it helps him!'

John Three smiles fondly. 'Its alright, John', he insists to me.

I step forward.

'Thanks, mate', I say, solemnly.

He listens respectfully, and at my words he smiles. A beaming, full of sunshine and happiness smile, where no darkness could ever lurk. A fulfilled, realised smile, as much as it looks innocent and pure, lifting 15 years off his face. Eyes shinning, blond hair glistening under the lamplights with a halo effect, he looks genuinely at peace with the end, with his life and his mission.

'Thanks', I repeat, for his so obvious reaction frees me from the guilt I felt deeply as he started to fade.

Sherlock steps forward, contained and respectful. He looks even a little subdued, but authentic, as he repeats:

'Thanks... _John_.'

The clone keeps that humble smile that could hold no deception all the way through his vanishing act. Until we can see no more of him, and he's part of the night air around us, part of our memories, and of a shared story no one in their right minds would ever believe.

 _ **.**_

'Your clone was supposed to save your life, not mine', Sherlock grumps as we make our way back to Baker Street. DI Lestrade took over the scene. We'll give our statements tomorrow, and Mycroft Holmes will sponge those records the day after.

I shrug. _Yeah, I guess._ I remind my friend, anyway: 'The clone did the right thing, though. It allowed you to rescue me. I wouldn't have made it back to you in time to pull you up.'

'Besides the point', the detective snaps back. 'He failed his mission.'

I frown. I, for one, am quite grateful for John Three's generosity. _You won't hear complaints from me, Sherlock._

The detective insists: 'He couldn't be sure of making it to you in time.'

I nod, pondered. 'True.' _Still no argument here._

'He took a gamble, John. An unsubstantiated guess while your life was at stake.'

I smile openly. _The Watsons are risk-takers. We're drawn to danger._

'He shouldn't have gone to help me first.'

I shake my head, sure of it. Finally I defend the absent clone: 'John Three did what I'd have done, Sherlock.'

That seems to tick Sherlock off, for some unknown reason. 'You'd put my life before yours? That's... irrational!'

I shrug. 'Done it before. And yes, I would. Again and again. Don't get me wrong. I wanna stick around as long as I can, but you dangling off the bridge and thinking any incarnation of me wouldn't rush to your defence... Frankly, I'm appalled. You're acting all reasonable. It's almost like you expect me to believe you wouldn't do the exact same thing for me, Sherlock. I may not be the cleverest sidekick for a Mensa grade genius, but you're selling me awfully short there!' I finish, almost breathless, pointing an accusatory finger at my friend.

He dry swallows. Then presses his lips thin. At last. _Guilt_. Exposed to his sidekick's scrutiny .

'I don't know what I'd do if that train...' he starts. I shake my head briskly. _No more of that._ We take risks. We are aware of the possible consequences. Luckily, we always seem to pull through.

'So, having a clone of me wasn't as easy as you thought it would be?' I smirk.

Sherlock takes in a deep breath. 'It was insightful... And tiring.'

'Tiring?' I repeat, amused.

 _ **.**_

I walk in on 221B's living room after a restoring hot shower.

'Sherlock, why is there a brain preserved in formaldehyde on the kitchen window sill?'

'My bad, John. Forgot to put it away.'

'Right. And how about you do it now?' I insist, as I don't see him move an inch.

'No need. It will disintegrate in no time.'

I frown. _That's a clue, isn't it?_

'The clone! It belonged to the clone!' I realise. 'Really, Sherlock? You kept John Two's brain from the autopsy? Why?'

'It intrigued me, John.'

'Hmm.' I purse my lips thin, _which in me means barely contained annoyance._

'Actually,' Sherlock picks up as if nothing much, 'it's not formaldehyde. It's Mycroft's faulty clone-prolonging serum.'

'Right. It seems to work on separate clone organs', I notice.

He smirks. 'I'll remember to tell my brother that much. That his serum will only work if the clone is not one single whole entity anymore. Frankly useless, really.'

'Right. Could you go put it away now?' _It's creeping me out, to be perfectly honest._

Still Sherlock won't budge from his armchair.

I take a deeper breath, till it hits me. 'Kept anything else?'

Sherlock sighs dramatically. 'Really, John, no need to be shy.'

I death-stare my friend. 'Anything else I should know?'

'Not at all, John. You are healthy for your age and general lifestyle.'

I protest at once: 'Sherlock, you didn't!'

'Would I miss the chance to medically evaluate my friend the doctor who cannot take basic care of himself on a regular basis? Absolutely not! I checked you for tumours, heavy metal poisoning, infections, and any other ailment I could think of!'

'That's... _thorough'_ , I admit, bewildered. 'Why keep my brain?' I go back to the start. I'm starting to accept the gory sight with more ease. _It's 221B, after all._

Sherlock sighs again.

'Illogically I hoped it's help me understand you better, John. In the olden days scientists put quite a lot of emphasis on cranial shape, on cerebral density and volume and some even thought the soul was described through the patterns of the brain folds. Perhaps I wanted to take those theories into account.'

I smirk. 'So, you're saying I'm the new mantel decor piece?'

He smirks with me. 'For a very limited period of time, sure. And then I never, ever, want to behold your brain ever again.'

 _Fair enough._ That would mean I, the original John, would be dead. I nod. 'That's a done deal.'

 _ **.**_

Sherlock and I are enjoying a well deserved quiet evening in, by the lit fireplace, when we hear hurried footsteps trotting up the stairs. We both turn to the living room door just as DI Lestrade comes up, breathless and flustered.

'I need John's help', Greg says at once.

Right, that's my cue; I stand up at once. _I'll come._

'No!' Sherlock imperiously denies. I slow down in shock. Greg was already leaving when he stops short, completely frozen to the spot, as if there was a bomb ready to go off, and its name were Sherlock.

The genius gets up, annoyed, and snaps: 'It's my turn. Get your own John, Lestrade!'

'What!?' The inspector protests.

I freeze, bewildered.

'Hair brush in the bedroom upstairs. There's enough DNA in the hair follicles. My brother will only be too happy to oblige you with a clone of John', he says without looking at the inspector, in a tone of voice that implies he's too busy to engage in actual conversation.

'Sherlock, I just want John's medical opinion on a fake suicide case!'

'He's too busy!' Sherlock insists.

'Doing What? Except for standing here listening to this crazy conversation?'

'He's making me tea.'

I frown. 'No, I'm not!' I finally give my input.

'Your clones were nicer', Sherlock protests right at me.

'What can I say? I got a taste of freedom and I liked it', I mess with Sherlock, never expecting to get the last word in. Much to my amazement I do. Sherlock smiles knowingly and just rolls his eyes to his audience.

Suddenly I look over at Greg. 'You didn't give him your cells, did you?' I ask, conspiratorially.

Greg blinks hard and hides a shiver. 'No', he says. 'I don't think so', he corrects.

'You need to get Sherlock on your fake suicide case. Hurry, before the idea settles in, it's not too late yet.'

Behind me, Sherlock quietly exhales.

We tag teamed on this one, I guess.

Takes years of friendship to do that.

 _ **.**_


	77. Chapter 77

_A/N: Still not British, a writer, or anything other than myself._ _-csf_

* * *

 _ **.part 1.**_

'Sherlock, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore.'

At the wheel, the Baker Street detective looks sideways at me, appearing infuriatingly confused. I sigh and repent.

'Mainstream cultural reference. Never mind. Won't happen again.' I glance over my shoulder at the stretching miles of tarmac in an endless road that we've been covering dully for hours. 'Where are we, anyway?'

Farmland lining each side of the road, punctuated by hay rolls, a few hills disguising further hills, and high tension lines spread out like bunting crisscrossing the terrain. The air is stormy heavy, swirling around with the warm dust coming up from the road.

Sherlock won't miss the chance to strike back, in light-hearted banter: 'You're the soldier. Surely you learnt basic techniques of orienteering in the Army. What else would they teach you there?'

I frown. 'How to handle firearms', I covertly warn him. I've been nodding off for the last hundred miles, possibly, and feel as grumpy as I act.

My friend's stance softens at once. 'Shoulder?' he guesses. At least, I think it's a guess. I didn't let it on. My old war wound playing up after hours stuck in the same tense position in the car, bolted to place by a seatbelt.

'Yeah, shoulder', I admit with half a grunt. 'Don't start thinking I'm not happy we rented a car instead of taking the train back.'

He smirks.

'We spent 36 hours in continuum investigation of a train crime scene murder that covered most of the inside of the carriage with a different colour. Mycroft just about managed to keep it out of the papers. It may have been a simple thought process, John, but I understood your reticence in boarding another train, back to London.'

I frown again. _He got it wrong._ I'm not easily frightened and I don't believe in ghosts. I was just hoping not to fall asleep deep enough to have vivid dreams of all around blood and guts. This was not the first time I've experienced such a violent scenario. I glance at Sherlock. He was watching me attentively, with more care than he's giving the open road, empty of other cars. I find that I have no heart to recommend him road safety.

I did fall asleep, inside the car. Maybe it was the awkward position that kept me from a deeper slumber or even Sherlock's close proximity that infused some feeling of safety in my war-troubled mind, but I didn't suffer those nightmares I was so wary off.

'How much further till London?'

The driver shrugs. _He doesn't know._ The man with the internal map of London borough in his head is lost on remote parts of England.

'Can we pull up at the next motorway service area?'

He hums in feeble agreement, then frowns. 'Haven't seen one for a while. Let's head to the next village coming up. Find a Bed and Breakfast for you, John.'

I scrunch my face in derision. 'Am fine!' I protest.

'A hot shower will soften the muscle tissue scars and release some of that pent up tension on your shoulder.'

'I could go on for miles!' I growl at my friend.

'And I can order an English breakfast in the morning. The case is solved, after all. I should rest and fuel my transport.'

I blink. 'Turn left right here, Sherlock', I comply at once, bewildered.

 _ **.**_

The tyres skid slightly as the rental car curves over the thin layer of gravel the old country house's entryway. A battered sign put up on the entrance porch reads:

 _Sycamore Hotel_

 _Bed and Breakfast_

 _Open all year round_

A second sign hangs from the first, stating:

 _Beds available_

The fixture of the second wooden board seems locked into place by the oxidation of the metal hinges alone, and I vaguely wonder when the Bed and Breakfast was full the last time. Must have been a long time ago.

Sherlock stooped the rental car right by the front door. We're the only car in sight, so the B&B can't be full. Behind the frosted glass panel of the front door, a pale shimmering light shines inside, but we can't discern other signs of life. No one comes over to greet us either.

As I'm unbuckling my seatbelt, I find that a strangely energetic Sherlock has already got out of the car, impatient, and he's come to open my door, at my left. I look up to my friend in surprise. He's ignoring me, looking ahead to the untidy garden around the house and the darkened limestone brick walls of the two stories construction.

'No sycamore trees around', Sherlock mentions, as soon as I'm out of the car. 'Disappointing level of accuracy. Honestly, John, how can one name properties like this?'

I smirk to my scientifically uptight friend. His lips twitching in a friendly smile just before he abandons me to get the bags out of the boot. I take my rucksack and howl it over my good shoulder at once. Sherlock leaves his posh carry-on bag within my reach, as he moves on, with the same brisk energy, to the front door porch. I mentally shrug and follow my friend with both our bags.

Sherlock has already made his way in. As I cross the threshold of that unknown property I can feel the dusky dampness inside as a marked contrast to the tepid spring air outside and the diminishing daylight as the night is soon to arrive.

We worked through last night, no sleep, Sherlock and I. Perhaps my friend doesn't believe he can have the necessary focus to drive us through a second sleepless night, and he won't count on me either. We really need a place to spend the night, no matter how shabby.

Quaint historical charm, they call it nowadays.

 _ **.**_

Reception is a little nook behind a fake, overgrown, jungle-sized plastic potted plant. It features an old dark wood counter with a bakelite telephone, a notebook almost entirely run through, and a leather bound guest book. For some reason, the whole thing reminds me of an old boarding school headmaster's office.

The most important missing detail seems to be someone to take us in.

The reception area is soulless, even though when Sherlock leans over the counter he rescues a still lukewarm cup of tea.

He also spots a convenient sign stating:

 _If I'm not here just carry on._

 _We'll get your details later._

 _There's no rush, city folk!_

'It'd be impolite not to do what the scrawled bit of paper says, John', Sherlock notes, opening the guest book with a flourish of pages and randomly selecting a blank one, and I stop him just before he's about to sip someone's tea.

'Sherlock, let's just find ourselves a half-decent place down the road', I ask my friend. Surely we can all benefit from being choosy.

He glances at me as if he's doing internal calculations on both our exhaustion and gives in with a shrug. He still won't take hold of his own bag, though.

Feels less oppressive, the warm air outside, and I relish in those few steps as we return to the rental car. Bags thrown unceremoniously into the back seat, we take our places inside the car, just as before.

This will be a Bed and Breakfast I'll be sure not to miss much.

Sherlock turns the key in the ignition. The engine chokes on its valiant effort to start the car, but fails at the first hurdle. Inside the car we fall into a respectful silence as the repercussions hit us. We're stranded. No signal. No car. In the middle of nowhere.

'The car must have been sabotaged as soon as we entered the house. There is at least one more person around', Sherlock comments, barely containing his anger. _It won't last long, though._

'Yeah', I agree dubiously, 'possibly a mentally unstable serial killer on the hunt...'

 _Sherlock perks up at that!_ 'Positive thinking, John, well done. Those self-affirmation audio books seem to be doing the trick.'

My mouth falls open. 'I never bought any! And they were to be a gift for someone at work! And were you looking up my browser's history again?' I can protest all I like, I can tell he's no longer listening. That's Sherlock. _He's got himself a fresh mystery._

'We'll be alright, John. We've got each other's backs', he says suddenly, looking at me encouragingly.

I squint. 'You're being more helpful than your usual self.'

'Really? Remarkable. Want me to change, I take it?' Sherlock offers.

'There you go, being nice again!'

He smirks but won't give in an inch. 'You're being paranoid, John.'

'Hmm', I protest.

Sherlock tries the ignition key again. Once more, nothing but choked sounds from the engine. In unison we look at each other. We're stuck at Haunted Hotels and co., in the middle of nowhere or thereabouts, by the looks of it.

'We're stuck in this haunted hotel in the middle of nowhere', I verbalize, as useless as it might be.

Sherlock spares me the "Obvious, John!" speech. He's letting on worry on his facial expression at last. _The bad omen feeling he's been holding back for my benefit, I can feel it too_.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	78. Chapter 78

_A/N: A bit more. Second update this week, who would have thought?_

 _Still not british, a writer, or scary. At least I don't think so. Am I? Nah. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.part 2.**_

Sherlock Holmes has never been too much of a scrupulous man to respect the social boundaries that would contain the ordinary person. If asked about his choices today, he'd certainly use me as his excuse, although I can state with certainty that the genius is close to his breaking point with exhaustion, much like me. He feeds of that nervous energy that a restless kitten would have chasing around reflected lights just before collapsing asleep in a heaped pile of warm fur and purrs.

Energetically, Sherlock jumps over the small wooden counter of the reception area and rapidly snatches a few keys of a small rack. He's seems truly ready to make himself at home, according to the lazy receptionist sign.

I look around in the small reception area. The rooms facing the front of the house look like a 1930s Agatha Christie theatre play set, locked in a time with heavy draping curtains, tea trolley with elegant tea pots and tea cakes on polished silver stands over white linen table cloths. Someone would be having an illicit affair and a divorce was pending, another would perhaps be a conman who had actually never been to war and was not disabled and finally, in this play, the artistic and rogue younger man that the adorable typical British girl was falling for did it, allowing her to see the stable good young man who had loved her all his life. I could see the whole thing unfolding.

Nowadays a Bed and Breakfast, it could have been classed as a small busy Hotel back in its heyday.

I come to the entrance of the lounge area to glance around, leaving Sherlock behind for a second, there's still no one else in sight.

'Tea pot is still warm', Sherlock comments behind me, making me jump. 'By the window', he clarifies for me.

'Where are all the other guests?' I find it really odd now.

My friends shrugs. 'Fire alarm?' he suggests without much care. 'Come on, John, let's settle in before you start drooling over that lukewarm tea pot...'

 _ **.**_

'I'll have you know I'm not grumpy! I never get grumpy! I'm just right, and that's all there is to it! The sooner you respond to the almighty reason you adore—'

' _Grumpy_ ', Sherlock interrupts under a disguised cough and a smug smirk. Luckily it's just us in the corridor, although we must audible to any other guests.

'Well, you'd know!' I protest, exasperated and short-fused with his _"I'm too cool to listen to you"_ attitude. 'You are the one—'

Next time Sherlock is interrupting me I instinctively know it's different. Something is wrong. Sherlock is pushing me out of the way, brusquely, smashing me against the ugly wallpapered corridor wall and closely pressing himself against me. The air gets sagged out of my lungs by a surprisingly strong skinny detective. I hardly let out a sound, immobilized by sheer surprise, like a deer in headlights.

Next thing I know there's a quick shadow coming down full force behind Sherlock. Among a cloud of dust and the roar of the crash I recognise a broken chandelier, fallen just behind Sherlock's back.

His fast reflexes and keen eye saved me in the nick of time from getting crushed by the metal and crystals structure.

'What! What was that?'

Sherlock releases me hurriedly and dives on the floor to check the remnants of the chandelier. I'm looking awestruck at the huge empty hole on the plaster ceiling, revealing the house's structural support beams.

'Sabotage, John', Sherlock reveals assuredly. 'Like our car, I'd presume. I need to go out and analyse the engine.'

I'm still stunned, heart pounding in my ears, excess adrenaline flowing in my veins with nowhere to go. Used to adrenaline, though, I recover fast.

'You're not going anywhere without me! Are you sure this wasn't some freakish accident?'

He shakes his head. 'Too fortuitous. And up there', he points to the hole in the ceiling, 'the attic is visible. Someone opened a hole on the floor there, wide enough to sneak a hand and sever the rusted hinge of the chandelier at the right time.'

'Not the right time. It missed us. Because you looked up, Sherlock. Did you hear something?'

He thinks back. 'Yes. Definitely. Too fat for common household rats. Must have been a fake ghost. A very corporeal apparition.'

'So this place isn't... you know... _haunted_?' I feel my cheeks warm in awkwardness.

Sherlock looks at me as if I had said the most preposterous thing. Then his expression grows heavy.

'We shouldn't have tried to back to London, John. I blame myself. Not such a short time after you've got triggered at the train carriage crime scene...'

'Am fine!' I protest, interrupting him.

'You're grumpy', he corrects me, adamant, walking off. I follow at once.

 _ **.**_

'This is the room', Sherlock announces, checking the little tag attached to the old-fashioned key. We'll be taking one of the prepared rooms, with the key he snatched randomly from behind the reception desk.

'The same room?' I protest, incredulous. 'We have a whole, apparently empty hotel and we need to share a room? Are we saving money? You know this is what gets people talking behind our backs!'

Sherlock rolls his eyes, unfazed.

'We have a whole haunted hotel, by the looks of it. General cultural references are your area, John, but I believe it'd be too stereotypically inept to separate ourselves in the present circumstances?'

He's got a point and I give in at once. By the smug look on his face, I can tell he expected as much.

 _ **.**_

'We should at least let someone know we're staying here. You know, to help identify our murdered bodies in the morning', I say, darkly.

The way Sherlock's brows meet in coordinated worry makes me regret my words at once. I walk off to unpack, briskly.

Sherlock takes up the landline receiver. He shakes his head briskly, stirring a flurry of his dark locks. I get it. _The line is dead._ Not surprising. _We're in a category B, low budget horror movie or a 1980s over the top music video production. Either way, we're in for a rough night._

Now that I pay closer attention, the telephone's electric chord has been cut from the wall. By my side, the detective reaches on to grab the chord in his fingertips and deduces out loud, as if he really couldn't help himself – he'll be deducing our way through this horror story, I bet...

'Clean cut, slightly mismatched, mostly parallel lines meeting in the middle. Scissors, obviously. Shows premeditation. Someone wanted to ensure we couldn't contact the outside world.'

 _Or get help._

I grab my mobile phone out of my pocket, frustrated. No signal.

Isolated from the rest of the world, indeed.

 _ **.**_

'Did you hear that?' Sherlock snaps suddenly, in a short brisk question.

'Hear what?'

He silences me sharply. It's not a first that the keen musician recognises faint noises much before I do.

Maybe I still have sand in my ears from all those IEDs in– _Give it a break already, Captain!_

'What?' I ask in a hushed question as if that could help having Sherlock answering me.

'It stopped', he comments, looking disturbed.

'What was it?'

'A song. A nursery rhyme.'

'You actually know nursery rhymes? You weren't, I don't know, raised in a sterile lab?' I mock.

He frowns on me. _Grumpy_ , he seems to imply. This time even I agree. _Sorry._

'A nursery rhyme? There's a baby in this hotel?'

Sherlock doesn't answer my query. All of a sudden he looks like he's had an old memory awaken from deep inside him.

I decide to give him space by collecting some fresh clothes in a bundle. A nice hot soak will do me wonders.

 _ **.**_

'Sherlock!' I call out, admittedly panicky.

I hear the small commotion noises in the room that precede my friend's approach to the bathroom door. He won't hesitate – I called him here, and the man has little notion of privacy anyway – and opens the door to this small space where the bathtubs hot water tap is still running, filling the space with the sound of gushing water and the metal whistle of old pipes under duress.

Also, he immediately spots the bathwater, running a deep red. I shiver from head to toe.

'I can see it too', Sherlock states calmly. _Straight to the core of the issue._

Then he jerks his head to scrutinize me from head to toe, in desperate analysis. 'You're not hurt! Tell me you're not hurt!' he demands thunderously, grabbing me by the shoulders, as if he could bully me to health.

I shake my head. The water came out like that. _It's not mine, mate!_

He seems to read the words I can't verbalize and stands down his worry at once. Noticing at last my immobility he steps forward and, unrepentant, he closes the tap and pulls in the chord to unplug the tub. I turn my face away as the red water swirls down the drain. Its rushing sound mingling with other confusing inputs in my mind.

I feel gentle fingertips over my shoulders, directing me back to the shared bedroom. I realise I closed my eyes, overwhelmed, only when Sherlock has already lead me to safety and asks me to look at him. I'll always trust Sherlock to rescue me from my Technicolor nightmares, when I hide in the darkness under my eyelids as a lost child.

As I open my eyes, a pair of intense blue-green irises are fixed on my every move. The way I breathe, my first tremors along my left arm, my every fleeting emotion. His eyes don't change one bit, but soon they let on a warm trust-me-John tell that is honest and true.

 _ **.**_

Tremors are rocking my tense frame from my left arm, all the way down to my hand. I'm a powerless observer to the way my body betrays my inner struggles, shocked to the core.

Sherlock has found some tea bags somewhere, and the kettle worked magic to brew me a comforting cuppa. We didn't have a mug or cup we could trust, so we improvised with one of Sherlock's laboratory beakers. Fine with me. I've had tea in far worse conditions, back in the war, I once— No, mustn't think of that right now.

The detective walks in on our shared room, with a patently casual look over me. Too casual, and I know he's scrutinizing me as ever.

Feels comforting to have his attention tonight.

'Green light bulb, John.'

'Excuse me?'

'Nah, you're fine.'

'What?'

He faces me, awfully confused. Polite conventions still catch him off guard at times. This time it has completely missed the mark on my friend.

'Green bulb?' I try to focus.

'And phenolphthalein.' He shrugs, like that's overly common. 'Mostly phenolphthalein.'

I still don't get it. He smirks. He loves to have my undivided attention, this time snatched out of the claws of a shell-shocked former soldier. He sees himself like a science magician on a stage act, I imagine.

'Phenolphthalein, John. It's a chemical substance commonly used as a pH indicator. From colourless it turns pink when in the presence of an alkali. Like the cleaning fluid residue left at the tub by an overzealous cleaning person... At least we can assume the tub has been properly scrubbed.'

I take it all in, slowly, sipping my tea. Sherlock patiently waits for my comeback.

'The water turned pink, you said. But we both saw red.'

'Under the green light out colour perception was altered. It appeared red. That means, in practice, that the bathroom decor is only half as hideous under regular lighting as we first found it. Also, the colour pink wouldn't be quite in touch with the haunted house feel of the practical joke.'

'Was it a practical joke?'

'What would they be expecting to accomplish apart from maybe a mild skin rash if you didn't notice the obvious straight away?'

'But why go through all of this? Why try to scare the life out of us? Who is behind this? One minute they are trying to get us out of here, rushing out of the front door in our birthday suits, because of bloody water, but in the first instance they trapped us in here by sabotaging the spark plugs in our rental car!'

Sherlock shakes his head. 'It seems we have fallen into an elaborate trap. Whether it was meant specifically for us is the real question.'

I sip my tea, it doesn't feel quite as comforting as before. Not Sherlock's fault. I liked his scientific explanation, it helped to ease my mind.

I rather have human foul play than a ghost.

 _There are no ghosts, Captain Watson. Otherwise you'd he haunted every remaining day of your life._

'It was put in the water? The phenol-thing?' I realise, suspiciously eyeing my tea. What have I been drinking? Is the tap water contaminated?

'Probably just in the hot water cistern', Sherlock reads my mind. 'And I made your tea with bottled water we brought back from the Yard's supply, John.'

'Ta', I say, reflexively. He could have started by saying that! Then I realise: 'You were suspicious of the water already?'

He rolls his eyes, and walks off. 'We're stranded in a haunted hotel, John. Let's say a bit of paranoia is warranted tonight.'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	79. Chapter 79

_A/N: Another instalment. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.part 3.**_

I'm putting my grumpiness to better use: 'Seriously, if _they_ drop chandeliers on us, they want us out of here. Why did they sabotage our car?'

Sherlock lights up at the challenge. 'Maybe they want to scare us. Keep us from finding something here. From going round, investigating... John, don't you think it's time we go check if we can find a room upgrade?'

I glance over my shoulder at the small bathroom.

'No objections', I state curtly.

Sherlock's smile widens.

 _ **.**_

'That flower vase wasn't there before', Sherlock announces, very assured, as he stops short on the middle of the corridor.

I suspiciously look up. _It's okay. We didn't stop under a light fixture._

I shrug at Sherlock's discovery. 'What about it? It's an ugly old vase.'

He shakes his head, already picking up the vase. 'Damp', he recognises as he threads his fingers over the outer porcelain glazed surface. Engaged, he hurriedly discards the bunch of flowers to the floor – I'd mention carpet stains but I'd be a good few decades too late – and sniffs the inside of the vase. No reaction. No deadly poison, no paint stripper, or whatever unexpected nastiness inside, I gather. I could have told him as much. Just fresh flowers.

'Just flowers, Sherlock.'

'Not enough water, John!' he tells me, hurriedly tilting the vase to show me. I see nothing, but don't let it on. I can take his word for it. 'Who would put flowers on water without enough of it? No, of course no one would. It's obvious, though, what happened.'

'Obvious?' I repeat.

'Someone knocked down the vase, spilling the water! Then hurriedly returned the assembled set to the wrong useless piece of furniture in this cluttered, doyly riddled, corridor.'

'Oh. But why?'

He smirks fondly. 'Always one with the pertinent questions, John. I knew there was a reason I kept you around', he snaps, conveniently forgetting to answer my question at all.

 _ **.**_

Still the same eerie music drifts in from a distance. I've caught to it a few times since Sherlock first heard it. I may not be much of a musician but I'm positive it's the same piece of melody, over and over again.

Sounds oddly familiar, and overly cheery like an over-sweetened piece of cake that will turn you queasy. I look over at the detective. The effect on him is not the same irk that I get.

For the second time he looks affected by the low level haunting we've been experiencing. He looks distraught, in fact. It makes me wonder if he knows this music, if it brings up memories; of loved times, of old habits, or of times he'd rather leave untouched, forgotten.

I call out to him, and for once he doesn't react, so absent-minded as he is right now. I repeat his name, more anxiously. _Sherlock is my support._ If he fails, it leaves me free-falling to world of shadows within me.

 _No, not on my own._ I must focus on my friend. He needs me now. My turn. To give back the dedication he's been steadily showing me.

I can be there for Sherlock, as he's been there for me.

'We're being taunted, John', the detective patiently translates to me. 'Nothing to worry about', he adds, murmuring the lyrics to the sound under his own breath, and I finally recognise it as a nursery rhyme.

" _This old man, he played one, he played knickknack on his drum,_

" _With a knickknack paddywack, give the dog a bone,_

" _This old man came rolling home"_

 _ **.**_

'Hidden microphones, John', Sherlock shows me the small gadgets he holds on the palm of his hand. He's just found one behind an oil painting with messed up perspectives of a Victorian London scene. I bet it's meant to be Piccadilly, but those lions look like ugly dogs.

I frown. Microphones. Once again the chosen expedient denotes premeditation. 'Someone is playing us like a fiddle.'

'How very appropriate, John', Sherlock comments after a small pause. Anyway the string played eerie tune has stopped since Sherlock found the microphone, as if the anonymous musician had turned shy upon discovery.

'So why do all this? Why create a theatre play with fabricated gadgets and optical illusions and the lot, to impress us? Why us?'

He presses his lips thin. 'I don't know', he painfully admits. Only to me he'll allow that painful statement to be proffered, as a sign of that full trust bond between us.

 _And if Sherlock Holmes doesn't know the answer yet, than this is a thick mystery to solve._

'So', I gather, 'the whole house has been turned in to a cruise ship grade entertainment?' I glance in the general direction of the front door. 'Did we miss the sign over the front door? Is this supposed to be entertaining?'

'Hardly, John. That falling chandelier was meant to hit us', Sherlock reminds me, drily. He wouldn't be too happy to use his gifts on a county fayre Haunted House routine. Then he smirks, victoriously, as he spots something over my shoulder. 'Creating a good mystery, however, is an art where you shouldn't overplay your hand', he states mysteriously.

Like often before, I intimately hope Sherlock never becomes the creator of a mysterious legacy, otherwise I fear it will remain forever unsolved.

I glance at where Sherlock has fixed his attention. It's just wallpaper, over the long extension of corridor wall.

'What is it?'

'Our room', he says.

I feel disoriented. 'Have we come back here already? Come full circle?'

He looks very confused at me. Not that, then. All the room doors look the same to me.

'Remember our room's dimensions?'

'Huh... Small.' I hazard a guess.

He rolls his eyes at my lack of attention. 'These two rooms here are smaller, John.' He gestures at the two closed doors on each side of him. _How can he tell?_ 'Markings on each door, when furniture scratches the surface, too close to the doors.'

'Maybe they're just cluttered with more furniture.'

'It's a cheap Bed and Breakfast, more furniture is not a room upgrade, John. It's a room downsized.'

'Where are you getting at?' I really don't see it.

'The case. Why would someone touch the vase if they weren't looking for a hidden room, a room that steals the useful space from the adjacent rooms, a room that has been left undiscovered for decades under layers of bad decor?'

As he speaks, Sherlock is already grabbing a loose corner of wallpaper and ripping it off the wall. I bury my hands in my pockets, by habit. _Nothing to see here!_ Just Sherlock's usual disrespect for private property, that's all. And the wallpaper needed updating for sure, anyway.

Under the jagged edged strip of wallpaper we find a plain wooden door with no handle. The surface is smooth and modest, which concealed it under the wallpaper.

I blink. _That's kind of cool._

My hands fly off my pockets at once. _I'm all in now._

Sherlock squats by the lock and picks at it with the ease of an experienced thief. I patiently wait by my friend's side as the rusty mechanism puts up one last fight.

 _ **.**_

The electrics go down before Sherlock has any success with the lock. We glance at each other. Someone has provoked this power failure to pressure us, as all their little gadgets seem to fail to impress us. _We must hurry._ The darkness makes us more vulnerable to their threats.

As Sherlock keeps picking the lock I grab a scented decor candle and sniff it. Magnolia, it says? I'm fairly sure that magnolia trees don't have much of a scent, with the whole insect pollination and all, but this is no time to protest with the scent industry.

Sherlock is already handing me matches and I light the candle. Its pale shimmer hardly filling the corridor and providing Sherlock with just enough light to find his angle of break-in.

A harmless metallic click declares our victory. Sherlock pockets his tools and pushes the door open.

We find a small closet-like room, with no windows, dominated by a bed, a chair and a writing desk. Everything is covered in sepia tones by palpable layers of dust and grey furry-looking veils of spider webs.

The cleaning crew will refuse to go through this room without a wage raise.

The bed sheet falling at the sides of the bed has ripped from its own weight in dust and the faded lace has less holes in it than it had to begin with. That's hardly the disturbing thing about the bed, though. There's a half dressed skeleton laying on it, head angled as if peacefully staring at the ceiling above, waiting, one would say by the united hands over the leftover bed sheet, stained dark all around the white bones.

'He's dead', Sherlock comments as if to prevent me from my doctoring urge to check him.

'You're learning', I grump, 'soon you'll be able to go to crimes scenes all on your own!'

He knows better than to take me seriously. Instead he leans over to the skeleton and deduces what little is available to the world's best detective: 'Male, old age, rheumatoid arthritis particularly displayed on his hands and knees signalling an active worker's life. No evident sign of foul play, could have died of natural causes. The fat tissue has mostly liquefied by natural putrefaction of the corpse, but by the estimated volume of fat on the dark stains on the bed sheets and correlating it with the size of his clothes I'd say there's maybe about a gallon missing?' he estimates, in a round about sort of way. 'So either he was placed here some time after the death and the beginning of the biological decomposition of the flesh, or – more likely – he had lost a significant amount of weight prior to his death. Considering this is an old cottage house with plenty of spare rooms and he's occupying what is almost a closet, I'd say he was locked here till his death. Hardly possible to ever verify that, though as—'

'Sherlock', I interrupt timely. 'We can read about it.' The detective turns to me, speechless.

I'm the storyteller of our duo. I let Sherlock run his analysis on the body and turned my attention to the handwritten pages inside the desk.

In the yellowed, crumbly pages I hold is the man's last will, dated 1895.

All those paying guests, staying at this Hotel at first, Bed and Breakfast later, never knew of this resident guest.

'Can you read it?' Sherlock urges me.

'Not enough light', I strain my eyes. The detective grabs a nearby silver candelabra with four tall candles and lights them to our convenience.

Immediately the room fills with stinky smoke, from the concealed animal fat candles that degraded to some soapy by-product by now.

'Put it out!' I demand, between chocked coughs.

He does, and both hurry off back to the corridor to grasp a lungful of air.

Damn, it always works in the movies...

 _ **.**_

'John, you look pale. You should rest. I can keep an eye out for our safety.'

I shake my head with plenty of conviction. We've got our hands in what seems to be a secular will that contains cryptic leads to a buried treasure. The enthusiasm of the find is enough to energise me for a couple more hours alone. Unless...

'Sherlock, Are we being played? Is this the real deal?'

Sherlock comes to sit by my side, over the edge of the bed, back in our original room.

'The spelling of some key words matches the epoch in which it was supposedly written, the thickness and composition of the paper point to good quality correspondence paper where the watermarks are just barely visible, the ink fading is consistent with the amount of time saved from direct sunlight. Yes, John, I find no proof of deceit in that paper and if I recall correctly, at that time you could have a valid will even without signing witnesses and the presence of a solicitor. So long as he was generally considered by society to be in his right mind, it should be legally binding.'

'It's been ages. His fortune has probably been squandered by the heirs, the correct ones appointed by him, or others.'

Sherlock hums in agreement. 'That hidden treasure, though...'

'Is the reason why we're under attack here', I finally get it. 'Someone, even after all this time, is still after...' I focus on the yellowed pages to assure my friend '...a darned good treasure.'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	80. Chapter 80

_A/N: Still not British, still not a writer; still no excuse, really. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.part 4.**_

My hands have been minutely shaking for a while now. I know this hasn't escaped the scrutiny of the attentive detective. He's been giving me these glances. Pleading silently for me to call it quits, to go have a lie down and rest. I just ignore away his blatant worry. _He's such a worrier, Sherlock!_ He worries about my tremors. He worries that I won't acknowledge them. He probably worries that I'm going to snap. That's where he's wrong. I'm John Watson. I've been through worse. This will not break me. I carry on just the same. Nothing new under the sun and all that... I whistle carelessly, as we walk out of the house. A stroll, a simple stroll it would be, if we didn't have a treasure hunt in the back of our minds now.

'Could you not whistle _that_ , John?' Sherlock voice interrupts me, behind me. I stop and turn, confused that I didn't notice Sherlock lagging behind.

'What? What was I whistling?'

'The haunting nursery rhyme', he tells me, too seriously to be pulling my leg. _Was I?_

'Ugh... sorry. It got stuck in my head.'

'Well, unstick it!' he demands, tersely. 'It's not good.'

I blink. He really looks spooked. The apex of rationality is acting like he's foreseeing disaster.

'Sure. Whatever, Sherlock.' I try to end the discussion by briskly stepping forward but a wave of vertigo assaults me cowardly from nowhere and I sway on the spot, finally leaning against the cool limestone façade and closing my eyes.

 _My mistake. Not closing my eyes._

I open them wide – _all seeing_. But I don't want to see. _I want to hide._

Sherlock is grabbing me tightly. I suspect he's the one holding me up, for the most part. I stumble forward and my friend is the welcomed obstacle on the path of my fall. He securely encircles my shoulders and softens my trajectory, hugging me. We hit the ground on our knees at the same time.

'No', I whisper harshly. 'I can't fall asleep.' I won't tell him why, I won't verbalize it, not even to him. Not really a demand or a request. Just a stubborn decision now.

'I'm here', Sherlock tells me, imprinting the words with warm confidence.

 _I don't get it._ Yes, he's there. Otherwise I'd be flat on the floor, face first. Why the obvious?

'Mmm fine...'

He chuckles, much to my surprise. 'Of course you are', he adds. 'You've not managed to walk on a straight line from the house. You are trembling and cold to the touch, not to mention that your blinking has reached an alarming accelerated rate. You are exhibiting symptoms close to those of a mildly intoxicated person, John, because you are in dire need of a replenishing rest, but you fear the retaliation of your subconscious supplied war memories and will not indulge in sleep. How long you intend to keep torturing yourself with sleep deprivation is beyond me – and irrelevant, for your body is winning the battle with your mind. I'll just tell you this, John: I'm here. I've got you.'

I splat my open palm on Sherlock's shirt and pull away deliberately. He doesn't fight my thirst for independence. He retreats respectfully but keeps close watch on his friend.

'Mmm fine, I says – said' I correct, feeling confused. 'Just fine. I'm a bit sleepy, but it's alright. I'm... fine.'

'John, would you—'

I cut him short by pressing a finger over his lips in a silence gesture. He seems taken aback, as if surprised. I give him a warning look and release him, eyeing him for signs of non-compliance, like one would to a naughty toddler.

'We've gotta case, Sherllll...'

His face softens suddenly as if he were watching baby penguins learning to walk on ice.

'Yes, John', he tells me at last. 'We've got a case to solve.'

Finally! Took him long enough to get it, for a genius...

 _ **.**_

The shovel in my hand keeps my body engaged in a tangible, concrete reality and the exhaustion numbs my mind into an absolute zero temperature, too sterile for thoughts. I'm grateful for the exertion of a mindless task to keep me engaged in this side of reality. I'll probably miss this shovel once we hit the treasure and pull it up.

'Sherlock, what's the treasure anyway?' I ask, stopping for a small breath. The surveying detective seems taken by surprise, even at the dusky light of the sunset. Standing by the four by four feet wide trench hole I've been neatly digging, he's been studying the same old will that has led him here under the last dying rays of natural light.

...Wait a minute!

'Sherlock, why are you still looking at the will? Have we got the wrong location?'

He shrugs. 'Probably, John.'

He wouldn't have assigned me a random location for a useless garden renovation just to keep me under check while he deduced a real location from the mysterious lines ...would he?

I take exception and flick the shovel over the edge of the trench hole, out to the dishevelled brown-green mess ahead. That catches Sherlock's attention at last, as he looks up from the map with innocent baby blue eyes after the flying instrument.

'John?' he enquires quietly.

 _As he not get it yet?_

I climb off my trench with little regard for its crumbling edges and address my friend:

'I'm going back in!'

A hint of a relieved smile is rapidly held in check by the detective that drawls indifferently: 'If you wish...'

'Call me once _you_ have dug up the correct location, Sherlock!'

It's not a polite request, it's a dangerous intimation.

He nods distractedly, once again focusing on the map.

 _Greatest consulting detective in the world, my—_

I fumble away, patting the dust off my trousers. I dare any half credible ghost to mess with me right now!

Sherlock thinks I'm off to sleep. I'm not. I'm doing what I should have done before. I'm getting my dues from the engine sabotaging, chandelier smashing, flower vase disturbing creep!

 _I've had enough._

I stumble twice more before I reach the Bed and Breakfast, but won't be deterred.

 _ **.**_

Anger has cleared my mind somewhat, as a powerful antidote to the exhaustion rendering me powerless. I cling on to that familiar emotion with tenacity. I'll do what it takes to find the perp that has set up the traps. Sherlock can find the treasure. He can climb mountains of gold and riches if he likes, I'm the practical man on our team anyway. I can get the bad guy.

Who needs an old family heirloom mystery when there's a perfectly adequate crook to get my hands on?

One moment my friend won't let me have a breath without his scrutiny, the next he's biting deeply into a juicy mystery and wouldn't even remember my name.

Ambivalent nevertheless, perhaps, there's a part of me that misses my friend, my partner in adventure. No point dwelling on that. I'll return victoriously to his side, and act like nothing much, and he'll disguise his jaw dropping surprise.

I head to the reception area. Same negligent sign claiming someone will eventually come along.

'Yeah... right!' I mutter under my breath. 'I'll keep it in mind when filling my customer satisfaction query, thank you very much!'

I'm already halfway up the stairs when I realise the earlier lukewarm cup of tea behind the desk is now gone.

 _It makes for a very tidy ghost._

He and I could get along very nicely if not for that penchant for dropping chandeliers on guests.

As I reach the top of the wide staircase to the upper floor, I'm already determined to show Sherlock Holmes that I too can be the detective in charge and solve a case. I can look around on the corridor leading to the row of rooms with closed doors and deduce the history of the house, of the previous guests, of that supposed treasure – that had better been used renovating the worn down property than been hidden away.

There's a book on the under shelf of small table with curved legs and chipped varnish. I lean over. Could be a very long diary of an old owner. By the size, could be an encyclopaedia volume. I pick it up and flip the pages. Turns out it was a phone directory, and I discard it, uninterested.

'Operator, give me Baker Street 221B. It's a matter of life or death', I make it up, under my breath. Could have been interesting to have lived in the past, I guess. Would Mrs Hudson have been our secretary?

I shake my head. _Focus, Watson._

The porcelain figurines are dreadful affairs from some old retirement home loot, and I'd be surprised if the idyllic scenes they depict were ever as sweet as the collective memory has recorded them.

The paintings wouldn't be much better. Mostly urban landscapes of no particular place. A mishmash of vaguely familiar streets and market stalls.

I wandered up and down the corridor, returning to the start. There, just by the stairs, a heavy damascus patterned draping curtain falls from the ceiling all the way to the floor boards. I kneel by it, curious if it conceals, perhaps, another concealed door.

Why stop at just one skeletal prisoner if your business is a mostly empty hotel? Plenty of empty rooms, plenty of nuisance guests. 'Why, sir, of course you may check out any time! You just can never leave...' I mutter. _Wasn't that a line from a 1970s song?_

With the tip of a tentative finger I raise the heavy curtain a few inches off the floor. No door, just more patchy, blotchy, hideous wallpaper. Ghastly, but expected.

I get up again. Guess it's safe. Not like I'm under a chandelier... I pull the curtain back abruptly, and a cloud of dust swirls around me, making me cough.

Therefore I miss my moment of glory. Not like anyone was there to witness, _no one ever is_ , with me, on my heroic moments. I shrug. Story of my life. Take this, as an example. I've just uncovered a very disturbing painting hidden behind heavy drapery.

It's a portrait of a young adult man, so young that he hardly bears a shadow of facial hair around the jaw. Thin, intelligent looking, dressed in old historical clothes and on a classical educated pose, hand resting over a small diary on his lap. Classical, typical in its genre, it wouldn't be an extraordinary painting if it didn't present an uncanny resemblance with my friend, Sherlock Holmes.

Similar feline eyes and angular face, long neck and wavy dark hair. The more I look the more I see differences between my friend and this old portrait of a local man. But that first glimpse of resemblance maintains. If alive, this man would be really old now. More than likely, he was an old owner of the property and his expensive, custom made portrait was shuffled about in the house until it got forgotten in this corridor, as an odd object that matched the colour scheme of the wallpapered corridor. Some time later someone put a curtain over it. Maybe to conceal a damp stain.

Who was this man who lost his name, his voice, his identity?

Was he the man that wrote that will? The prisoner of the secret room? The skeleton on the undisturbed bed? I contemplate his depicted countenance with some sadness for a couple of moments.

I can finally hear it clearly for myself, that eerie song that destabilized my friend, drifting in on the corridor. Like most old-fashioned nursery rhymes, its lyrics are borderline nonsensical and eerie. Still I don't know what got old Sherlock in such a state.

"This old man, he played six, he played knickknack on his sticks", I song along by memory, "with a knickknack, paddywack, give the dog a bone, this old man came rolling home."

'Sherlock?' I turn around to survey the lobby bellow. I thought I heard my missing friend nearby. Nothing but stillness and silence bellow. My hairs stand on end. Something, maybe the heavy stormy air drifting in from the front door left ajar is making me feel on edge. With a pang of guilt, I recognise that it's Sherlock's calming influence and proximity I miss. Maybe he was right after all; I shouldn't have left do soon after I had to fight tenaciously a vivid flashback at the train carriage crime scene. Who could blame me? I just wanted to get the he'll away from there, as far as I could...

I hold the weight of old age on my wrists, over the upper floor's balcony railing, by the staircase. Dark solid wood holding me up, in a small landing that overviews the entrance and reception. No living being around. So maybe this B&B is not a real haunted hotel, maybe there never will be an owner appearance to collect payment. Speaking of which, it'd be _bloody embarrassing_ if he showed up now. Sherlock has got my wallet, we stopped on a petrol station on the way over.

Just my luck, he'll show up and Sherlock will be nowhere to be found...

With a sigh I step back from the balcony, wanting to check if Sherlock might had taken a new path to return to out room, for instance, when the wooden floor creeks just behind me. 'There you are, I've been looking for—'

I don't turn around in time. But I get it's not Sherlock, as I'm struck on the back of my head forcibly.

" _This old man, he played seven"_

I lose balance over the start of the long staircase, and desperately reach out.

" _He played knickknack up in heaven"_

My fingers miss the railing by an inch. My back hits the first steps, I curl on myself to avoid breaking my neck.

" _With a knickknack paddywack, give the dog a bone"_

After the first steps it all blurs into a chaotic painful descent, until I finally land on the ground floor, with a heavy thud.

" _This old man came rolling home."_

I try to push myself up carefully, but everything turns to darkness.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	81. Chapter 81

_A/N: And it's Monday again. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.part 5.**_

I come to sharply, rising with a jolt. I freeze myself at once as a splitting headache calls me back to reason. _No rush!_

'Good to have you back, John. I do not like it when you leave me all alone', Sherlock says, lightly, as he turns the page on the yellowed paper will in his hands.

 _How did I get here? Where are we?_

I look around. We're in the secret room. Sherlock is sat by the desk in his usual pristine looking suit and dandified attitude, and I've been laying on the rotting skeleton's bed. 'Sherlock!' I groan as I turn my face and gaze straight at the eyeless orbits of my companion.

The detective peaks from over his pages in curiosity. 'Problem?' he senses, with no real notion.

'Yeah, problem! How am I to get all this mummy dust off my favourite jumper?'

Sherlock shrugs and disengages. 'They're _all_ your favourite jumpers... So, it's not about the skeleton?'

I blow a raspberry. 'I'm a doctor and I solve crimes with you; since when was a skeleton going to bother me?'

I can catch a glimpse of Sherlock's fond smirk as he turns the page again.

'When did you find me? How long have I been here?' I ask, abruptly stopping to swat the dust off my clothes, and to test my every bone, muscle and ligament. Luckily I didn't break any bone, and all bruises will heal, in time. _Really lucky._

He lowers the will at last. 'I never left you, John. I followed you at a distance, wanting to make sure you were fit to carry on, and that no harm came to you.'

'I can take care of myself!' I protest.

'Clearly', he pretends to agree with a bit of sarcasm. _Oi! We both failed that mission..._

'I got hit from behind, by surprise', I relay, rubbing the back of my head. From his chair Sherlock hums, preoccupied, as if he too didn't expect someone to surpass my soldier instincts. _Ta._ I brave on: 'I heard no footsteps and no doors unlocking, it's like he came out of nowhere. Did you see him?'

The detective shakes his head, gravely.

'My vigilance was not good enough', he assumes the blame.

I shake my head too, albeit carefully. 'No, that's not it.' Finally taking a seat at the edge of the bed I ask: 'You saw the portrait, right?' He nods, apparently unimpressed. 'It's a lead!'

'It's irrelevant', Sherlock corrects.

'You're just upset that he looks like you.'

'He does not. I'm handsomer', the cocky detective assures me calmly.

I smirk, amused despite myself.

'And that will, any advances?'

Sherlock's countenance grows unsure. 'You need to keep resting, John. We are safe here. I've got you, as well.'

I smile, thankful. 'Feeling better now. My body got some rest one way or another... Consider it a bedtime story, how about that?'

He seems reluctant, but eyes me carefully as I lay back down on the bed. Only now I notice the skeletal guest has been carelessly tossed aside to make more room for me. Sherlock is not one to take so little care with evidence, and I see how distraught he must have been while carrying me up here, that even a promising case was made second to me.

'It's typical drivel for the type and time, John. His name, his estate, his undivided love for his heirs and all that trivia', recounts the insensitive detective, cold mask firmly on. 'Not so much love, though, that he wouldn't hold back on a few major items of his estate, setting a strange prose as a treasure map to their secretive location. Something about making sure his idle boned sons deserved these riches.'

I frown. 'Considering it's likely that they locked him up in this room to squander away his money, I'd say being idle was not their main character flaw.'

'If they found these papers, they put them back in the writing desk as a proof of their father's insanity. No, wait. Silly me. This is one of the legal copies, that the old man kept.'

 _Sherlock is not as focused as usual,_ I notice for the first time the signs that have been in front of me the whole time. He's been dividing his attention between the case and me.

It must have been quite a shock when he found me at the bottom of the stairs.

I look on to the white bones skeleton next to me. Hard to imagine _he_ was a person looking at him now.

'What else do we know about _him_?' I ask, desperately trying to humanize him in my mind. Sherlock won't negate my request.

'He was about your height, John. Good posture.'

'How do you...? Oh, yeah, you had us side by side and compared. Always multitasking, huh? Go on.'

'He was probably the man in the portrait, John. The time frame coincides, after all. And so does a fractured and poorly healed index finger on his left hand, if you look at the corresponding phalange', he pulls out the tip of the finger bone off his coat pocket to show me, on the skeleton and in the portrait.'

'Why snatch the skeleton's finger, though?'

'Economy of means, John. It's the best mean to establish the identity of the remains, wasn't leaving it to be vandalised by whoever is attacking us', he states firmly.

He thought this through and so I let him off.

Lastly I want to hear it clearly: 'Read me the riddle, Sherlock.'

My friend clearly depreciates me calling it a riddle and turns his nose, but complies nevertheless.

In Sherlock's strong, educated, clear voice I hear the mystery over a century old:

"This old man lived tall as an oak,

Seven by four, and down he went,

Took time to see the sun rise,

Among the headstones is his home."

'Only it isn't', I comment, 'because his descendants were sore with the mystery, they left him to rot.'

'Inadvertently leaving us the clues to the family's mystery too', Sherlock comments, cheery.

'So, the place I dug up earlier... How did you deduce it?'

'Incorrectly', my friend admits only to me.

I shake my head. 'I mean; why there?'

'It fit all the relevant clues. I faced the house and took seven steps forward and four to the right, representing East for the sunrise. Simple. Occam razor's principle; the simplest solution is the most probable correct one.'

'But I didn't excavate a treasure, Sherlock. Perhaps someone has beat us to it?' I shake my head. 'Are you sure you're reading the clues right? Was there any other old oak around to start from?'

The outraged detective lets out an indignant huff and refuses to further engage with me from then on.

 _ **.**_

Not even our first time grave robbing – and Sherlock handed me the shovel with the unspoken expectancy of habit – a minor detail I'd strive to keep out of Scotland Yard's knowledge.

'Graves!' I exclaim, taken by surprise, as I discern the sequential shadows in neat rows.

Sherlock, the overbearing detective of Baker Street, rolls his eyes and sentences: 'Predictable!'

I snap my head his way. 'Are you kidding me? I'd be honestly disappointed if we didn't have to grave rob to expose our ghost!'

Sherlock's stance softens at my boyish enthusiasm. 'Fine!' he pretends to concede reticently. 'If we must solve your afterlife mystery let us take this message seriously. It has the simplicity of a children's riddle, you have surely noticed.'

I cross my arms in front of me. 'Yeah? Is that so? Then, tell me; where is that treasure?'

'Don't be grumpy, John!' he diverts. 'It's more _fun_ to follow the leads than to deduce the end result, and I intend to take you through the process.'

'How kind!' I reply, sarcastic. 'You don't know where it is, do you?'

'Patience, John, is a virtue.'

'So is honesty, mate.'

He just smirks fondly.

 _ **.**_

A flimsy mention of headstones and Sherlock's incredible mind went on overdrive. He found an old map at the abandoned reception desk and there he located the smallest topographical reference of an old, disused chapel. His long finger pointed with certainty on the glossy paper where he expected there to be a small graveyard.

Being the middle of the night, and a few hours off sunrise, we gathered a few lanterns and set our course at once.

Now I'm digging under Sherlock's managerial directions, hoping to redeem our first failed attempt.

I stop for a breath, clearing the sweaty hairs clinging to my forehead. 'We tried seven by four, and four by seven, Sherlock. There's nothing here!'

The detective snaps, putting down the lamp and jumping in to the grave. He snatches the shovel from my hands and energetically takes over. I'm so surprised that I let him.

 _He seems to know what he's doing, as if he's had quite the experience._

I climb up to the surface and sit down on the quiet graveyard, in wait. It might take a while before the hyperactive investigator admits defeat and renegade each new inventive theory that might defend yet the discovery of a treasure here.

Exhausted to my limits, I lean against the closest headstone ...and fall asleep before I know it.

 _ **.**_

'John... _please_.'

I open my eyes, they feel lumpy and dry. I look around, utterly confused, as I take a shaky hand up to my face. My skin feels damp and warm. I clear my throat. Feels scratched.

 _Must be coming down with something._

Even doctors get ill sometimes.

'John?'

I blink. _What is it, Sherlock? Found something?_

'You—' he gulps, and rethink his words. He gets up from a squatting position by my side briskly, saying: 'You have too much faith in me, John.'

I shake my head confidently. _We'll find our treasure soon, Sherlock, you'll see!_

 _ **.**_

'Will you stop hovering over me? I'm counting! I know how to count to seven and four perfectly well, Sherlock! In fact, I know how to do it in several languages! Shall I prove it?'

The consulting detective sighs as if faced with a challenging trial. 'I'm hovering over you because I have nowhere else to go. We're clinging to a chimney on a rooftop, John.'

I ignore his assurance, for it's no time to be stuck to facts. There's a reason why we're here. I snatch a switchblade knife from my jeans back pocket and scratch the bricks with the tip. The surface crumbles under the pressure, but behaves absolutely like an ordinary brick would. The same happens for the Four by Seven brick.

'Sherlock...' I start.

'It's not here', he voices, deflated. 'But all the clues fit!'

I nod, understanding. _The trouble with generic clues for a specific mystery is that they could lead to multiple answers. All mathematically correct and, paradoxically, only one can contain a treasure for real._ 'Let's head back in, Sherlock. Can you backtrack your footsteps?'

'Watch yourself, John.'

'Same to you.'

 _ **.**_

Sherlock's eidetic memory had supplied us with the lead, we thought. Upon our entering the property, the London detective had taken notice of the limestone façade, the symmetry of the windows, and the chimneys above the house. There was also something else there. A weather vane, in the general shape of a tree, swept by wind. A Tree of Life motif, and how well it fit our quest. Just a simple metal shape, turning under the influence of the prevailing winds. The riddle mentioned a tree, an oak to be more precise. So Sherlock and I had to give it a good try under the moonlight.

 _ **.**_

'No wine on the wine rack, but plenty of empty bottles', I comment, confused. 'Who returns empty wine bottles to the cellar?'

The detective by my side shrugs. 'Someone who wasn't supposed to have drunk its contents, I believe... Wait!'

'What is it? Did you find the treasure?'

'No, I found a full bottle', he says as he pulls one out of the compartment. He runs a hand over the label and seems impressed. Immediately he grabs the handmade cork and twists it out of the bottle neck.

'Shall they add that as room service to our bill?' I ask him, tiredly.

Sherlock sniffs the bottle contents and assures me: 'Local wine. By the alcoholic content I estimate it's about two decades old now. I think, John, we found the last wine delivery to this place while it was still open regularly like a B&B.'

'And now, what does it serve as now ?'

'It's a haunted house, John. Have you not noticed?'

 _ **.**_

One can't go much further down in a house than the cellar, we supposed. And in any way, it allowed us to explore the house further.

Soon we will be known as the worst guests that ever came to a Bed and Breakfast.

My friend is distracted, his mind lost between this strange case and his assistant. In this strange state, with divided attention, he cannot seem to bring himself to solve the case. Only pale attempts to scratch the surface of the riddle have kept us busy during the first hours of the night. _Fine by me, not like I intended to go to sleep, anyway._

I'm starting to suspect that I need to solve the riddle myself now. I wonder what Sherlock Holmes would make of that?

 _Probably he'd take ownership of the idea as if_ _that_ _was his plan all along._

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	82. Chapter 82

_A/N: Here's a recap of the mysterious lines, for your convenience._

"This old man lived tall as an oak,

Seven by four, and down he went,

Took time to see the sun rise,

Among the headstones is his home."

 _Worry not, I have no heirloom to hide behind murky, ambiguous lines, for future generations. Good thing too, I can't rhyme. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.part 6.**_

'Sherlock, what are we doing?'

'Wasting time.'

'No. Seriously...'

Drained, I demand answers from the cryptic, overly smug, detective keeping close at all times in our quest for a treasure in a haunted hotel, severely past its prime.

'Seriously, John. As you must have noticed, our case can only be cracked at sunrise. There's still a while till dawn, which you'd better spend sleeping and resting your body and mind.'

'I'm fine!' I interject. _Comes out grumpy._

'Knowing how much you did not want to be sensible, I found small answers to the riddle that would keep you focused on short, achievable tasks. The graveyard, the chimney, the wine cellar. All time consuming.'

'You gave me wrong deductions to keep me distracted from my nightmares?' I ask, appalled by his frankness. _How difficult it must have been to the investigator in love with the truth to fake his way through make believe deductions, for me._

'Technically they were all possible correct answers to the riddle, as you, yourself, have noted.' _Technicalities, a genius last refute of accuracy._

'They were too simple, childish!' I protest.

'That is a reflex of your expectations of the case, not of its quest', he defends, as if hurt.

I shake my head, not really in disagreement, but to clear my head.

'Fine. It's almost dawn. Can you provide me with the correct deduction now? _Finally?_ '

He smiles, agreeable. 'Of course, John.'

 _As simple as that? I just had to call him out and ask for the correct deduction?_

Glancing at his wristwatch, my friend assures me: 'It's time.'

 _ **.**_

'Firstly, a reference to an oak tree. No mention of which oak tree, or where to find it. Here, China, Bangladesh, surely not Greenland. Trees don't have legs, they don't go walking off. That has earned them an old use as land markers. Often planted at the perimeter of lands, to signal where one piece of land started and the neighbours ended. That oak might have been old enough, significant enough, to have complied with that custom. So, old, at the edge of the land, within the vicinity of the house.'

'The will is over a hundred years old. The tree might not exist anymore.'

'The detective nods. 'You are right, in a way. The oak doesn't live on. Not like you imagine it.'

'Pardon?'

'You're pardoned. Please stop asking to be apologised, John, it's very awkward. I understand slower intellects need more time to process information.'

 _Oh, I could punch his smug seriousness..._

'The tree died eventually, but the trunk is still there, is that what you mean? No one used it to create furniture or light up the fireplace some cold winter?'

Sherlock nods. 'The oak lives on, in all the saprophyte organisms that colonize the fallen tree trunk nowadays. By the size and type of colonies I estimate the tree has fallen two seasonal cycles ago. In fact, I almost missed it, under the natural camouflage. It stands behind the house, by a dry creek.'

'Why does it matter when it fell? Still trying to work if a tree falls when no one is there to listen, it actually makes a sound?'

He ignores my philosophical input easily.

'Next thing I needed to do was to determine the state and vastness of the surrounding vegetation. Turns out there was little competition for daylight, soil nutrition or water. Two years ago the oak's height was impressive. Ignoring possible limiting factors that could stun the growth of the tree, I used Royal Horticultural Society data to determine its age at the Time of Death, and therefore the probable historical height at the time of the Hotel's peek, long before it became a rundown Bed and Breakfast as it remains today. Using that epoch as the probable time for the mystery being set up, and using simple trigonometry to calculate a shadow being cast by the tree, I determined where the morning light would most likely cast a shadow towards during the equinox. It falls on the garden behind the house.'

'Hold on a second! I didn't see you do the maths or consulting the RHS.'

'I used mental maths for the first, and my mind palace repository for the second, John. Some of us have active minds even when they keep quiet on the outside.'

I blink. _Oi!_

It's still of my impressive that Sherlock has just performed a virtual autopsy of a tree.

'So, you recreated the tree's shadow. Now what?'

'Seven by four. It strikes me as measurements. Feet being likely, leading up to the derelict garden at the back of the house. But that would fall on the patio's stone pavement and there's nothing there. I tried several units of lenght, in vain so far. I'm pondering a use of an historical, no longer in use, measurement, like cubits or furlongs. I really must decry the scientific language of the old man...'

I interrupt Sherlock before he can garner his breath to discourse on scientific matters:

'It's probably _feet_ , Sherlock. Seven feet by four. Speaking of feet, we should get ours moving.'

He looks at me as if I just said something clever. _Well, cleverer than usual._

'Of course! John, you are a genius!'

'Yeah, I know', I play along; and it tastes like a bitter lie. I don't score high on self-satisfied smugness. 'What did I say that was so clever, anyway?'

'Feet!' Sherlock proclaims triumphantly.

'What about feet?'

'I need to contact Molly Hooper to get me half a dozen left feet for an experiment, but don't you distract me, John Watson, feet are the key to the riddle!'

'Feet?' I repeat, getting nothing.

'Feet. Your feet, to be precise.'

'Mate, you're not experimenting on me!'

He blinks, confused. 'But—' Finally he gets it. 'No, no, no. I just need you to stand still. _Your feet_ will be the measure. You have the approximate height and built of the man that set up the mysterious lines, John.'

Oh, right.

'And when we find out the X that marks the spot?'

'We dig the garden up. Like the grave for a secret treasure.'

 _ **.**_

An old, dried up well. That's where seven of my feet's length leads us. Another four under and it's me leaning over the border of the stone well to reach an odd coloured stone in the structure. Sherlock is holding me strong by my trousers belt, taking no chances. A faithful switchblade knife, some scrapping at the mortar and off it falls – with a loud splash – that odd stone that covered up the wooden chest.

Morning is breaking, the early birds are chirping away from the nearby trees, and the heavy humid air is just as stormy, with no release, as I bring up the small, but heavy chest. I lower it on the dirty pavement between us with reverence. The blade is edged on the lock and with a short tap I crack the rusty mechanism. Sherlock raises the lid.

Gold coins. Several. Old. Murky shine and slightly uneven surfaces. Valuable. Secretive. Lost no more.

' _Hands in the air!'_

The shout comes, outspoken and rough, from the house's open French windows. From the shadows within, two men come out, one of them holding a gun.

They look similar enough, like family, I notice at once. Brothers, perhaps, or close cousins.

'Finally!' Sherlock exhales under his breath, as if he had been impatiently waiting to be pointed this gun at. I blink, confused, as I realise there's a certain determinism to this twist of faith. This is how it was meant to be from the start. Getting to the treasure they carefully tried to keep us from – rather confusingly, I'll add – was the only way to attract those proficiently haunting us, and to settle our scores with them.

I only hope Sherlock has thought this through, and set to motion some advantage on our side of the battle.

'Nice to meet you', I say politely, getting up and setting the tone for our interactions. 'We've been wondering where you were. Room service has been ghastly.'

The two men looked bewildered at our casual ease with the whole being pointed a loaded gun at. They glance at each other, unsure.

 _ **.**_

'Our great grandfather's treasure has been _here_ all along?' The one with the gun marvels. 'All those crappy summer holidays we came over, remember them, bro?' he asks the other one. 'No stone unturned, we looked all over for the old man's fortune and it was _here_!'

The second man's face is not as marvelled. In fact, it looks hideously disfigured by hatred. Past memories can cast lost shadows, I surmise.

Casually, as if I'm no more than a curious soul sharing a nice chat over a cuppa, I ask: 'Why now? Why do you need the treasure so desperately now?'

'Yeah', he actually seems eager to share, 'I got divorced and my brother got a settlement as he was laid off from—'

' _Shut up!'_ the brother shouts angrily. In the process he seems to have forgotten his gun, neglecting its aim, lowering it vaguely at an angle where he might shoot a toe off.

I try to swiftly grab the gun, but he's not as distracted that he won't point the gun straight at my face, once again in attention. I gulp drily as I mobilise at once.

'We'll take the treasure now', the one holding the gun avidly wants to take over. 'We outwitted you, Chandler!' one tells the detective.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Its "Sherlock".'

I look away. _When did I hear that name, Chandler, before?_

In front of us, the overly creative criminals are visibly confused. 'You're not Chandler?' one asks, with apparent dread.

 _Great. They haunted us by mistake!_ What a pair of amateurs.

The second guy elbows the first to shut him up. They are looking all the more amateurish by the minute. Were these the ones turning my blood cold?

I groan and cover my face with my palm. Sherlock and I have stumbled into someone else's private haunting party.

'You're not Chandler?' he insists.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Already established that. Move along...'

'Then, how come you're here?'

'It's a Bed and Breakfast.'

The pair looks taken aback. 'It's a lousy one.'

'We weren't in a position to be fussy. Especially after the rental car got sabotaged, leaving us stranded here.'

The second guy elbows the first, angrily. 'Told you!' he further hisses to his partner.

 _These two are tiring me out._

'We put an add on the local paper', the second one says. 'To attract Chandler here, if he's still alive.'

'To kill him?' I guess, thinking of the fallen chandelier.

'Not until we get the treasure, we might need him. Just had to make sure he couldn't escape.'

If injured, Chandler wouldn't go far, I get it. It's a simplistic way of reasoning from a very amateurish pair of criminals.

'Instead you got more than you bargained for. You got Sherlock Holmes', I declare.

'Who?'

None of the two man seems to recognise my incredible friend.

 _I'm so really, really tired..._

'Get back in the house. We'll tie you up and leave you to rot in there', the most vocal one decides. I glance at Sherlock. He looks unperturbed and I wish he has a plan.

We start walking to the house slowly, resentfully. Sherlock catches my eye. I follow his glance to the heavy draperies over the French windows. _Oh..._

 _They really should have asked me for the switchblade knife..._

The curtains fall heavily on the target before that gun gets shot. In a theatrical style cloud of smoke and dust, the amateur duo of criminals get caught by device of their own crappy hotel.

I look down at the two fallen petty criminals, Sherlock is already disarming and tying them. _If only all my ghosts were this easy to address._ A shiver runs down my spine and my shoulders drop. I lower my dizzy head, closing my eyes. Exhaustion is making a winning move on me. Now that the adrenaline crashes, I fight it an immense struggle to keep awake and functional. At the same time I won't accept to go to sleep, to face my nightmares; not now, not yet, never again if I have left an ounce of strength in me.

Sherlock's soft touch rescues me at this point. Guiding, supporting, but not overpowering in my overwhelmed reality, on those walls closing in on me.

 _ **.**_

'How come we didn't find those two before? We've been up and down the whole house, searching for the treasure!'

I'm packing our stuff back into our overnight bags. We're finally checking out. And we won't be leaving a tip!

Sherlock smiles smugly, as if holding in his secret, rolling it in his tongue, tasting it before allowing it to the world.

'I'm sure you are capable of deducing it on your own, John.'

'Come on, give me a break! It's morning and neither of us can walk in a straight line anymore, we're that tired. Stop building suspense, the ghost story is done with!'

He nods in agreement. 'Secret passages', he agrees at last in providing an opaque declaration that creates more questions than answers.

I frown; curious, as he knew I'd be. 'They hid inside the walls?' I translate, imagining the duo in some dusty, narrow corridor, listening in on our conversations on the other side of wood and plaster.

'Why not show up earlier? They had a gun, they could force us to find the treasure for them!' I notice.

'They were very amateurish, John, the option probably didn't even cross their minds. And they knew we weren't going to go with the treasure, they had sabotaged our car's engine.'

'And all the pranks? The phenol-thing in the bathtub, the falling chandelier, the eerie nursery rhyme?'

'They were meant to keep us engaged in the quest for the treasure, I believe.' He shrugs.

'Again, the gun alone...' I start to protest.

'Not everyone has your love of guns, John.'

I roll my eyes, unimpressed.

'And Chandler, the third heir? What about him?'

'Never saw the add about the search for him in the _local_ newspaper. He left town a long time ago. He didn't keep in touch. Why would he get the local paper? Surely the local police force of the tax office can track him down more efficiently than those two, and hand him the heirloom he's entitled to.'

I clear my throat. 'I expect a Thank You card, in the least. After all we went through...'

Sherlock smirks. 'He also interested the Bed and Breakfast, so a free overnight?' he adds, disingenuously.

'No, thanks', I answer very fast. 'Had quite enough. Time to go home now.'

I look over to my friend. We both look so exhausted. Sherlock's usually dignified and pristine appearance is tainted by the all-nighter. There's a healthy stubble lining his jaw, the white shirt is creased and dirty on several spots, even the scarf is not tied in the proper Sherlock-fashion – and I fight off the urge to fiddle with it, settling it right.

'John...'

'Yeah?'

'Do you still oppose to taking the fastest train to London?'

'Not anymore! But... the nearest train station?'

'Ten minutes away. We can walk.'

'We don't have a map and our phones aren't working, not out here, at least.'

'Basic orienteering, John. Between the two of us we can pull it off.'

'I suppose we can always ask someone for directions along the way.'

He smirks. 'That would be cheating', he declares.

I shake my head to his childish intransigence. Still keeping me engaged with small challenges then? Fine, I'm up for it. Helps keeping the two near sleepwalking friends awake too.

So long as we don't wander off into another haunted B&B.

We set off in no particular hurry.

 _ **.**_

I have great difficulty remembering those lost hours on a fast train to London. They seemed to stretch as long as the miles we travelled. Sherlock and I sat side by side in a crowded carriage that was far too noisy and frantic, after the calmness of the countryside. Soon we left the train station, abandoning the haunted case. I casually put my hand on the arms rest between our seats, conspicuously close to Sherlock's jacket sleeve. It comforted me to feel the fabric there, just by my fingertips, as a material proof of my friend's presence, as I lost my gaze out of the window, to the ever-changing landscape. Sunshine gave way to cloudy clumps over grassy hills, and then to low visibility and rain watering at the window pane, skewed water tracks energised by the imprinted speed. Never once did Sherlock move his arm from within my grasp. Not for a cup of unsavoury coffee he bought from the trolley attendant, or as he sipped it quietly on disgust, holding it I his other hand, probably burning his fingertips on the paper cup. For my part, I never felt the need to breech that distance and reach over. Sherlock's proximity was undeniable and generous, and kept me afloat as, tiredly, my mind wandered between awoken dreams and a sleep tainted reality.

 _ **.**_

It's early afternoon as I get out if bed, with the stiff joints and fuzzy head of a true lazy sod. Can't remember the last time I slept in so late – but I'm instinctively certain that it was Sherlock related as well.

Swinging my legs off the bed covers (why do I have mismatched socks, was I drunk as well as in desperate need for sleep?) I marvel at how the soft morning light angles at the desk by the window. Who drew the curtains almost shut? It seems more foresight than I'd have mastered on arrival at Baker Street. In fact, how did I even get up all those steps if not with the constant help of my good friend? Sherlock has got my back, that's for sure; but this is a quiet show of devoted friendship that goes beyond the normal scope of such arrangements. After all, I'm sure Sherlock was equally wrecked himself by the train carriage case, and on top of that, by the small, often dangerously ridiculous, haunted hotel case.

I feel I mustn't linger. There's a newfound urge in me to check on my friend, returning his selfless gesture.

As I come downstairs, I'm surprised not to find Sherlock at all. He's not experimenting, or walking about in the secret throes of his genius mind. Could it be that he rebelled over his overindulgent in sleep sidekick and just took off on another case alone? That thought leaves me uneasy for I always fear Sherlock might need me in my absence – the man is prone to getting himself into reckless trouble – and going looking for a runaway genius is always a trial.

The flat is all silent and still, and the soft midday light permeates through the kitchen window as well, immersing the place in usual quietness. _Sometimes this is exactly what Home feels like._

Only then do I notice the small changes from the place as we left it a couple of days ago. The kettle has been used, displaced from its customary location. A thermos bottle is set on the kitchen table, along with a covered up plate. Food? Did Sherlock get interrupted midway from his late breakfast? Must be a good one... Sherlock doesn't usually have breakfast, but I guess he'd make an exception after the closed cases.

I decide to walk over, playing the homemade detective, at the one location in London where it makes the most sense to do so.

The mystery thickens as I go through the kitchen onto the living room. Sherlock's violin and bow are laid on the table by the windows. That surprises me, for Sherlock is always so conscientious about his precious life companion, the violin that is the voice of his inner feelings, in a coded language known only by the musician.

Not two seconds later and I find Sherlock never really abandoned it. The detective himself is found on the long sofa. Profoundly asleep. Looking pale, exhausted, but unequivocally peaceful. Wavy dark hair falling in messy locks over the sofa's arm, soft swaying of the ribcage as he breathes in and out perceivable under the dusty, white shirt, folded at the elbows. He looks like an overgrown child, asleep after playing out games and racing around and finding a treasure at the end of an imaginary quest. Content, as he grabs on to the fleur-de-lis patterned cushion, with just some tension on his long fingers. Peaceful, yes, but watchful, nevertheless. Noticing this brings me some sadness, that after Moriarty Sherlock has never truly relaxed the same in the world trusting way as he did before. He's lost some of that innocent streak that I could so easily identify in the ascetic, distant detective when he got caught off guard and let the façade crack.

Slowly the pieces concerning the morning hours fall in place inside my mind, painting the portrait of a friend that, selfless, gave me more of a genuine display of friendship than I could ever hope for, and not to be publicised for returns of gratitude, either.

Worn out as undoubtedly Sherlock must have been upon arrival at Baker Street, he helped me up to my room for fear that I might trip on the stairs and hurt myself. More than in just cautious protection, my friend assisted as I clambered to a bed that, in my exhaustion, I no longer recognised as familiar. He helped me rid of my shoes, and to put my phone on the bedside table. Already sharing the small room with an unconscious flatmate, Sherlock pulled the curtains shut, hours away from the full morning lights, before gently leaving the room. After coming downstairs, possibly to slip summarily into his own bed, Sherlock must have somehow noticed that I was restless in my sleep. I must have made some chocked sound or tossed around forcibly in my bed. Maybe that sound, whatever it was, delayed my friend somehow, with that same preoccupation about me that he has shown me on every mile of our journey back to London.

Knowing he needed to catch up on several days of sleep deprivation, Sherlock played an unusual homely role and, with the success that only a genius can have at any previously unattempt task, he made breakfast for us. Well, mainly for me; for he only eats when I insist with him, or distract him along the meal, or downright bribe him with a treat after the meal (with what can range from a chocolate bar to a dead body, depending on the mood). Making sure to take care of me in his own predictable absence from the awake world. By the end of the culinary task he still worried about me, to a point that, evidence can't lie, made him loathsome to leave me to my predicament, on my own.

There was a conscious decision to play his violin at the odd hours, in the hope that, as usual, I'd be comforted by the familiar melodies, and that those melodic soothing tones could permeate the storm brewing in my foggy mind and rescue from my torments back to the safety of home. For how long Sherlock played his violin in a generous abnegated effort to tie an invisible, magical string to my wandering mind, keeping it close, I can only hazard a guess.

He's asleep himself now, possibly laying down his protection shield only after he believed he heard me settle. Sherlock was my guardian angel tonight, and a most generous and selfless one at that.

Finally collapsed at the long sofa, a surprisingly comfortable piece of furniture for the category, I can't bring myself to rouse him now, to tell him to go to bed. He's so young looking in front of me, face relaxed to almost a hint of a smile, that I guess one night in the sofa won't harm him irreparably. Instead I draw the living room curtains shut, dimming the incoming light, and grab the Afghan blanket from the back of my armchair to drape over my friend's sleeping lump form. In his sleep, he moves about restlessly, but not enough to wake himself up.

He's asleep, but still vigilant.

I decide to return Sherlock's kindness and keep close myself. Walking to the kitchen I'm already leaving a whispered voice mail message to the clinic on my phone, cancelling my work for the day. "Code Sherlock", I tell them. I never cleared exactly what that expression meant, but it stands for an unequivocal imperativeness that a reckoning force keeps me from going to work. More imminent than an emergency, more important than life and death, more secretive than Mycroft's MI5 meddling.

I power off the phone, putting it down on the kitchen table. I pour some of Sherlock's stored tea (it smells bitter, but any tea is a blessing this early in the morning – pardon, afternoon – after the night we had) and return to the living room with my mug.

I sit on my armchair, facing Sherlock's quiet sleep. Still his fingers are clutching the cushion stick to my attention. I can't ease his tension. I can't play the violin, not without rising him in alarm for I'm not a virtuous musician. _I'm just John._ I'm not particularly gifted in any creative or soothing area. I can't seem to be able to give back the same way a genius watched out for me when I was the most vulnerable and lost.

Keeping close is the only offer I can give to Sherlock, no matter how useless when compared to the grandiose friendship gestures he tried keeping on the low from my knowledge.

I reach over to my laptop, carelessly abandoned nearby before we left for that first train case, and power it on. I have so much to wrap my head around, to organise in my mind. I decide to start a blog entry about our Bed and Breakfast experience. The Case of the Haunted Hotel. It's got an old style ring to it. Maybe a bit simplistic, though. I can work on it later.

I ponder the screen for a second and the words, the descriptions, the phrases flow and link to one another, blossoming in my mind at once. I type methodically, sipping my tea from time to time, humming when a particularly good metaphor comes to mind (classy metaphors are really not that easy).

After a while, I look over at Sherlock. He's drooling slightly over the cushion that he no longer claws for dear life. He's found his anchoring, he's no longer at drift in the sea. I wonder what changed the situation. What he's dreaming of. If he knows deep inside that I'm standing close. That I'll protect him in return. I wonder if I did anything that helped. He keeps himself deeply asleep. Eyes closed, no new smells, no touch. And then I wonder; was it the mechanical, uneven, sound of my typing that grounded Sherlock so shamelessly in the homely comforts of Baker Street? Did he recognise it as inevitably mine?

I smile despite myself. Maybe sometimes just being myself is enough to return the great friendship.

I lower my face to the flickering lit screen, feeling a bit shy, my cheeks a bit warm. I'm glad I can help. It makes me feel at home too.

 _ **.**_


	83. Chapter 83

_A/N: Sometimes there's Thursdays too. -csf_

* * *

 _ **1.**_

' _Breathe, damn it!'_

I'm frantically performing CPR on the man sprawled on the living room floor, and it couldn't be more wrong. By my side, Sherlock is spewing out instructions for the ambulance crew on a 999 phone call, as he curiously peeks over my shoulder at the stranger collapsed over the rug.

'I don't know his age; _old?_ ' Sherlock guesses vaguely. 'If you must know, he came in as a client and promptly collapsed on our floor... No substances use, no... How do I know? _Trust me_ , I'm the best detective in London, and if the ambulance takes any longer to get here, not even the best doctor in London is going to be able to keep him alive with only his bare hands.'

' _Don't you dare!'_

'There you go. Heart is stopping now... Do I need to call the morgue or will you guys take him there?'

' _Sherlock, I need your help!'_

'Nonsense, you're doing fine, John. Can I send the body to the care of doctor Molly Hooper of Bart's Hospital?... What do you mean you're not a delivery service? Then why so many ambulances?'

' _Sherlock! Stop that and help me!'_ I shout angrily. Sherlock glances at me and disconnects the call abruptly, tossing the phone aside. 'He's dying!' I remind my friend. The truth in my words bites at me painfully.

The consulting detective hums at my words. 'He isn't as boring as the other clients.'

'I'm losing him', I confess, deflating, exhausted. My chest compressions are losing rhythm as I fight the inevitable I don't want to face. I won't give up.

'He's been fatally stabbed', Sherlock assures me. 'He knew he didn't have long and that was why he barged in on 221B. Getting our attention was his last effort.'

'Our attention?' I repeat, never stopping that trance-like repetitive motion over the dying man's chest.

'And his case', the detective adds. 'He's got both', he says, solemnly.

Given the circumstances, how could we have refused the case from a dead man?

 _ **.**_

Car tyres screech to a desperate halt on the street below. I hear them from a distance, made bigger by a cloudy hazy in my drained mind. I had to accept death, and stopped the chest compressions at last. I keep kneeled by the lost client, as my friend takes over with indecent eagerness. Sherlock is quickly assaulting the dead man's pockets and multitasks as he chats with me: 'Ah, the detective inspector arriving! Finally he replies to my summoning.'

Slowly I turn my head to our living room door where, sure enough, Greg Lestrade emerges a few seconds later.

'Sherlock, what happened?' the DI asks, breathless from the run up those seventeen steps. Then he spots the whole scene and I could swear he takes half a step backwards. 'Jees... Not another one... John?' Slowly I look back at our friend. Somehow I had gone back to looking at my lost patient. 'John', Greg directs firmly, fatherly. 'Shower. Now. You've got the dead guy's blood all over you. And Sherlock. Explain. Now.'

Acting all aloof, Sherlock starts recounting about our sudden visitor, his collapse before he could mutter more than Sherlock's name in a tentative fashion, my rushing forward as a doctor, the discovery of a deadly knife wound the stranger would succumb to, the expected vengeance of a landlady when she finds out the state of the living room rug, the strange little box the man had been carrying in his pocket – surely to present along with an intriguing case; and finishes by explaining I'm looking so stiff because I blame myself for losing that life, so now Sherlock must take the unspoken case and avenge an unnecessary death – and this case was only a Five at best, which is less than his usual standards, and Sherlock decries that as a fault with every fibre of his detective persona.

'What?' Greg blinks, lost to all the frantic input of information.

Sherlock sighs impatiently. Before he can explain again, there's more than the sound of the late ambulance arriving up the street. By the approaching sounds, there's a whole convoy of emergency services surrounding Baker Street.

Fully aware of its meaning, Sherlock groans in displeasure.

 _ **.**_

I'm annoyed beyond measure at Sherlock Holmes, but secretly I know it's not necessarily my friend's fault that we are both waiting out in a pop up tent erected at Mrs Hudson's front door, hazmat suits all around us as they test our clothes for biological and chemical poisons, and a paramedic lady is fluttering around us.

She might be wearing ear plugs for she's been impervious to Sherlock's scathing comments so far. Good on her, but today I'm rooting for my mate.

No, wait, we're here because of him and his twisted family affection displays.

'Your blood pressure is a bit high', the paramedic prompting the BP cuff on my arm comments. I glare at her as both the cause of the affliction and its solution.

From yonder, by the tent's entrance, Sherlock is standing up (refusing to sit, wait or rest), surveying the scene outside. He glances back at me, full of secret analysis, and dismisses his attention at once. _He knows I don't want to be here._ He must also know it's his fault. Not for running 221B as a detective's lair, but because this overreaction comes directly from the older Holmes brother. _Mycroft Holmes won't take a chance when it comes to the safety of his baby brother._ And if not even the brave paramedic gets anywhere near Sherlock in his acidic independence, then testing John Watson is the easiest way to clear the younger Holmes.

 _I'm just collateral damage in their fraternal demonstrations of affection._

A while later and they take away our clothes for analysis and possible incineration. We're handed blankets as temporary replacements. I snatch two for myself, and wrap myself, mummifying myself. I'm fuming silently; or almost silently, as I find myself muttering: 'That was my favourite jumper too.'

'They are _all_ your favourite jumpers, John', Sherlock comments dismissively as he envelops himself in the coarse material as a poor replacement for his bespoke tailored suit.

'Well, it was. Like the one from last week. That one was irreparably damaged by science. And the one the week before—'

I'm forcibly interrupted by sheer shock as the paramedic lady turns to me and demands I lay back on the gurney. She effectively starts plugging me to a portable stats monitor.

'What? Why?' My protest is almost a whine. _Not fair!_

'Your blood pressure us too high, sir. Try to relax or I'll have to medicate you.'

I blink. That's pure nonsense. _I outrank her!_

Behind the paramedic's back, Sherlock rolls his eyes at me. _Hey, it's not_ _my_ _fault!_

I try to raise my upper body from the gurney but the paramedic lady splays her hand on my chest and pushes me back down. _The professional deontology code would frown on that!_

She brings out a mild sedative – I'm a medical professional too, I know what she's doing – and I really don't want to tackle her to the ground, _but I will._ I try to convey all that in a warning, sullen look. She leaves it nearby as a tangible threat.

Before anything rash happens, the canvas tent flutters with an incoming visitor. Who would march right in on such an emergency scenario? I can't see behind the other two.

'Mycroft', Sherlock recognises, not without spite, for my sake, as I'm still pinned to the gurney. Quickly I disentangle myself from the surprised paramedic's grip, promising cooperation. Eyeing the visitor, she accepts to leave us, reticently. Sherlock's big brother then comes over to us, impervious to the promise of warfare contamination, swinging his quintessential British black umbrella at the pace of his footsteps.

'My, my... Aren't you busy, Sherlock?' The newcomer forces a fake smile on his face as a painful spasm.

'Not really', his brother answers aloof. 'We have a case to solve and a lost life to avenge. Ordinary day to day life.' He shrugs.

'Are you in a hurry?' Mycroft comments, as if in a hidden test. He's sensing our knowledge, I think. It's easy, we know nothing.

'Your men make Baker Street not very liveable at the moment. Surely you can have them go away? Oh, and there's a rug to dry clean.'

'Sherlock, it's just national guideline procedure for people of interest to the British government. I wouldn't do this for anyone.'

'I'm flattered', Sherlock answers flatly.

'You should be.'

'Does that mean they can now stop probing and prodding John?'

Mycroft glances at me, acknowledging me at last. I've got my arms crossed in front of me and give him my best stern captain look. He acts impervious to it.

'The case is fairly straightforward', Mycroft comments instead.

'Childs play, really', Sherlock agrees with a small shrug.

 _Wait, what?_

'You'll solve it in no time, I imagine.'

'Interested then?' the younger Holmes notices easily.

'Your client was an important scholar, Sherlock. The world is indebted to him for his advanced work.'

'He had no identification papers on him. Lestrade's men are still working on it. So I assume you knew he was coming over. And why.'

Mycroft just smugly eyes his brother as if to remind him _he knows all_. Sherlock snaps at him:

'I've taken the case. I'll keep you updated. Stop ogling John. I expect you'll facilitate our diligences in this case.'

I snap my head towards Mycroft Holmes, giving him a quizzical look as I distractedly grab the blanket tighter around me.

Mycroft almost bows his head in a goodbye and comments offhandedly: 'Your bravery for your Country and Queen honour you, doctor Watson.'

 _What?_

 _Oh._ I feel awkward as I realise I had my shoulder gunshot scar on display for the older Holmes to analyse. I feel exposed, queasy, frustrated. My privacy has been squandered away in a moment of distraction. I'm a broken soldier, a pawn, examined by the supreme commander. Which is silly, for if anyone can read my old army file for fun it's Mycroft, surely.

As I look up, Sherlock and Mycroft are suddenly facing each other in a strange standoff antagonism, almost as if in a blinking competition. _Who will fold first?_ Slowly Mycroft draws a smile, intended to appease his baby brother and adjourn the battle to a more convenient date.

'Anthea will take care of your transportation. York, I believe?'

The detective disengages at once, indifferent again. 'Obviously. Only takes a look at the body.'

'I didn't look at the body. I saw the cuff of John's jumper as it was bagged up for the forensic team. I saw the traces of river sediment.'

Sherlock shrugs. 'A child could see that.'

'Naturally.'

'A child might not notice the pollen grains on the left side collar hem, though.'

 _That's it. I had enough._ I get down from the gurney to rescue my beloved jumper from evidence hell. A nice wash and rinse will take care of all that, I'm sure.

Two pairs of hands fly out to stop me in my tracks, as if having read my mind. _Being both a Holmes, they probably did._

I pull my blanket back up again, suspiciously glaring at Mycroft.

'Keep me updated, Sherlock', the older Holmes requests, as he turns to leave the pop up tent. 'England needs you!'

 _ **.**_

'Did you say your brother was ogling me?' I blurt out the question, uncomfortable.

'What? No! Well, yes! But not to all of you, John.'

I don't know what to make of that, and I fidget uncomfortably on the gurney.

'I'm flattered, but—'

Sherlock cuts me short only when he's sure I've made a fool of myself already.

'Your scar, John. My brother was fascinated by your war wound.'

I pull my blanket tighter around my shoulders, and find myself fidgeting more; it's a touchy topic for me.

'It was just an enemy stray bullet.'

'By the entry angle and bullet calibre, you were shot by a sniper, most likely while attending a fallen fellow soldier.'

 _Couldn't get that one past him, could I?_

'Mycroft called it _bravery_. I thought he didn't believe in _bravery_.'

'No. He just doesn't understand it. Bravery is not rational. Self-preservation is.'

I smirk. _Did Sherlock just admit to me he is irrational?_

The detective notices my response and grows impatient. 'We need to go. Precious time is being wasted. Are you ready to go? The travel will be good for your hypertension. We can get fresh clothes up from the flat. You can get a new _favourite_ jumper on the road.'

I nod, shortly. 'I better already get a spare.'

Sherlock smirks, amused.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	84. Chapter 84

_A/N: This is the fandom where even the missing scenes have to make sense. Fine. I'm like that too. But that's why the stories have become so long. Don't you come complaining! Actually, no one complained. I'm just hypercritical of myself. So I did my own complaining. -csf_

* * *

 _ **2.**_

'Okay, you've got a question.'

I snap my head away from the cold tinted car window of the ride organised by the older Holmes. Very inconspicuous; if you are a movie star wanting to be made by your fans.

'Yeah, I do.' _With Sherlock, I always have questions._ Taking a second to organise my thoughts, I ask: 'He knew he had been stabbed. Possibly dying. Maybe he knew I'm a doctor, maybe he thought I could stabilise him. But in the least he could have phoned for an ambulance himself! Earn him some time. Maybe, with the ambulance gear I could have saved him. Maybe. A long shot. But it was worth the try...'

'Technically there's no question there, John', Sherlock replies, infuriatingly calm. Then he adds, looking out of his own window: 'Duty. Honour. A sense of mission. You should know about those. There are rare – and becoming rarer – people in this world who consider their calling before themselves. He must have known he was still being followed; how else would they have stabbed him on some alley or dark corner, on his way to Baker Street?'

'Why stab him?' I ask, resentfully.

'They wanted the mystery. Obvious.'

'He didn't give them. Considering it's that box they were after.'

'They didn't know about the box. They wanted answers. They didn't get them. They let him walk away, once injured. Probably followed him to our flat – and now I expect they'll have tried to follow us.'

I contort myself on the car's back seat to look out of that back window, to the steady flux of cars.

'We're being followed?'

'More than likely.'

'We need evasive manoeuvres. I can take over the wheel and—'

'Nonsense. I want them there, where we can control them. Get to know them. It'd be impolite not to make their acquaintance...'

I mumble something under my breath about reckless detectives and overworked protective sidekicks left out of the loop. 'Okay, fine. So the client had to pass us some obscure knowledge. He got up all those 17 steps at Baker Street. He collapsed. When I carry up the shopping I'm also quite sure I'll be collapsing soon and I don't get stabbed at the supermarket. Not on a regular basis anyway. He didn't manage to say a word. How's that for a failed mission?'

Sherlock looks at me, curious.

'You're angry, John.'

'He didn't _have_ to die.'

Sherlock tilts his head slightly.

'In a moment of painstaking danger he chose to protect his secret.'

'Go ahead. _Say it_.'

'Say what?' he looks genuinely at a loss.

'He counted on me to save his life and I didn't. I failed some genius professor from Cambridge or Oxford or wherever. Some generational genius who thought I could just plug his wound and all would have been okay; _because that's what reckless geniuses think!_ '

Sherlock blinks.

'In all likelihood he didn't know you were that kind of a doctor, or that you'd be there. Stop blaming yourself. It's becoming trite and commonplace.'

 _Easy for him to talk._ I stare at the window with some viciousness. There I find the rolling landscape outside superimposed with my own reflection.

'We'll get answers in no time, John. And if you must know I blame myself too.'

'For having a useless sidekick?' I blurt out before I can bite my tongue.

'For not having managed to open this mysterious little box yet', he corrects me patiently, as if he knew he'd have to let me wear out my self-hatred.

Like he expected, Sherlock manages to reel back my attention. I look on over to the object he's holding in his hands.

A small wooden box, pocket-sized really, lacquered and finely decorated with intricate weaves of Celtic motifs. Dark veneer with orangey lines embedded of softer wood – cherry tree, perhaps – on the hard one – mahogany, I'd guess. Could have been the quaint little piece of our grandparents house, belonging in a car boot sale more than a contemporary design store. Then there's all those little drawers. Different sizes and shapes, all over the six sides of the box. None came with a knob or peg. In fact, none gave in to Sherlock's nimble fingers prodding about, earlier in the journey.

'There's an order, or a pattern, that unlocks the box, John. Without clues, the guess list is astronomical.'

'Two mysteries for the price of one', I mutter under my breath.

'The box is not the mystery, John', Sherlock assures me. 'It's the vehicle. Must have belonged to the professor. What is inside', and at this point my friend recklessly jiggles the box in the air to feel the rattle, 'is the clue that the professor tried to keep from his enemies, and ultimately cost him his life.'

 _Touchy subject right there, mate!_ That's Sherlock, alright. Faithful to the facts till his dying breath. He won't ever let me forget the life I lost in my hands.

I look on out to the row of cypresses lining the fields on the top of the hill.

'I'm sorry.'

My friend's words rescue me from my abstractions by sheer shock. I look at him in surprise. _Did he just apologise, or did he misread a social cue?_

'You didn't do nothing.'

'Double negative, John? Yet, that's exactly the point. I didn't do a thing. His death is my responsibility as much as it is yours.'

I'm fast to defend my friend, before such an idea can settle in his head. 'You couldn't have done a thing. Just as fast as he came in, he collapsed and croaked.'

Sherlock smirks. 'Well, then! How does it make it your fault?'

I blink. _I'm not sure._

 _ **.**_

'Hey, this is London! We're going back to London?'

Sherlock nods. 'We've been going in circles. I'm amazed you didn't notice. You've spent 98% of your time gazing out of the window.'

 _I wasn't really looking._

'Have we lost our tail? Have you given up?'

'No to both questions. But I need Molly Hooper.'

 _There you go. She's a better doctor. He's swapping you for Molly._

 _Stop it, John Watson._

'Right.'

Sherlock glances at me, possibly having expected more questions.

'We're x-raying this little box. It's either that or take it to bits with a hammer.' I look at him in shock, he flashes a smug smile; he's got my attention on demand. _It's like a super power of his._

'Won't that bring danger too close to Molly?'

'I don't expect them to follow us inside Bart's. And once there – there are lots of doctors in a hospital.' He frowns theatrically. 'Too many doctors. Do keep close. You all look the same to me, and I don't want to have to train another of you...'

 _Okay. Now he's messing with me._ I don't feel like engaging, so I go back to watching the grim grey world outside the car window. _I guess you can overdo your hand at a super power._

 _ **.**_

'Sherlock is worried about you, you know that?' Molly starts an awkward conversation with the brisk energy of someone trying to complete it before changing her mind.

I glance at the great pathologist extracting a liver from the hollowed cavity of the dead body on the slab. She's got her hands on a nice healthy looking liver – in good nick for the patient's age – in which a fatal tear is the obvious cause of death. Internal bleeding, even with anaesthesia and surgical instruments it would have been difficult to fix that before time wore off. _I shouldn't, but I feel relieved to know there was nothing I could have done by the time the professor got to Baker Street._

'John?' Molly calls for my attention, noticing I haven't answered her. I make an effort to reconstruct her one-sided conversation.

'Sherlock is distracted with this case, Molly. That's all.'

'Sherlock', she patiently corrects me, 'went out to get coffee. When was the last time _he_ actually was the one getting the coffee for himself?'

I blink. _Hmm; close to never, actually._

Molly braves on: 'I think he sells himself a bit short at times. Sherlock, I mean. But of course I mean Sherlock. Who else would go fetch a cup of coffee to drink at the morgue? It's also against the health and safety regulations, but that won't usually stop me either', she confides with a nervous giggle.

'What about Sherlock?' I focus harder.

'Well, he probably wanted to give you a chance to apologise to... you know... the corpse. Sherlock told me you blamed yourself for not saving his life. Which is silly, by the way', she adds quickly; strong, steady. 'You did your best. And no doctor won't ever lose one of his patients. Except maybe for me. But I'm a different type of doctor. Or a dentist. I suppose there's a very low patient mortality rate if you're a dentist...'

I groan and lower my head. 'I'm fine. It's done with. It was just the adrenaline crash. I'm fine now. I lost patients before. Plenty of times. I'm alright.'

'John, if you keep repeating "I'm fine", you just make us more suspicious. Do you get that?'

I sigh angrily. 'I need to help Sherlock solve this case. Make this man's lost life have some sort of meaning, do you see that?'

She nods, all shyness gone now. Molly is a force of nature to be reckoned with, when she's on a mission. I can get why Sherlock entrusted this mission on her.

 _He better bring her a Thank You coffee and cookie on his return._

'You're a good man, John. I'll get you some latex gloves and a visor and you can help me finish the autopsy. Sherlock is bound to get impatient for results soon.'

Molly walks off to get me the protective gear, leaving me alone in the darkened sterile room, reeking of disinfectant. Under the spotlight it's only me and the professor. I glance over my shoulder, clear my throat, shuffle uncomfortably and finally settle down.

' _I'm sorry'_ , I whisper at last.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	85. Chapter 85

_A/N: Apologies for the delay. Other plots sneaked in and grabbed my full attention. -csf_

* * *

 _ **3.**_

'If word spreads this is what happens to our Baker Street guests, I fear we will be left only with the internet based cases', Sherlock comments quietly, as he oversees the morgue slab. Immediately he sips from his paper cup coffee, when others would have lost all appetite.

Molly and I are closing up the autopsy at last. I signal her to indulge the eager detective, I've got the task. She stopped looking surprised at my multivalent medical skills a while back, and has accepted that a doctor who has been deployed to the active front of a war has learned to be the consulting general practitioner, the surgeon, the forensic examiner, and the undertaker.

'Sherlock, you say he was a professor?' she starts, unsure. I'd be sure he'd dismiss her queries, hurried as he is, but instead he waits patiently on her.

'Yes, not even an hour ago. Then; lights out!'

'He had a funny diet, you know. John found this on his stomach.' She picks up a plastic evidence bag where a little ornate metal key, not even an inch long, resides. Sherlock snatches the bag with no regards to Scotland Yard or the criminal investigation to follow. _I guess it will be our little secret._

'John, stop practising—' he hesitates for a word, then swirls his hand vaguely, 'your cross-stitching skills! We've got a case, remember?'

I give my friend a heavy glance, but indulge him all the same by removing my apron and gloves. He glances at his wristwatch impatiently as I take off my headgear protection. 'Alright, alright, I'm coming! Don't get a fit!'

Molly giggles, and immediately glances at the towering detective, mortified by her momentary siding with me. He actually winks at her, not overly bothered. _Sherlock just wants to keep me on the move._

We've got a solitary key, a box with no locks and several drawers, and a dead professor with an integrated case we can't refuse to investigate. Where can all this lead us?

 _ **.**_

'These are the x-rays of the mysteriously closed box, John', Sherlock hands me his phone as it displays a sequence of black and white blurry images of the box's outline and, inside it, the sharper definition of a small metal key.

'What, wait, another one? He swallowed a spare?'

'John, you don't _observe_!' he berates me at once. 'The key's ridged teeth pattern is clearly different. They are different keys to different locks.'

'Well, there's obviously something linking them together for they look the same otherwise.'

'Yes, and we still don't know where to use them.'

I sit back on the black cab's back-facing seat. Sherlock, in front of me, glances out of the window impatiently. _It's as if he knew we are on a time constraint here._

'Two keys', I start. _Muttering incomplete statements is often a good way to milk information out of the genius that is customarily three steps ahead of me._

'Two inaccessible keys, to begin with', Sherlock plays along, with a shared knowledge type of look. I frown in dismay at once.

 _Oh, he's making me work hard here._

'Double security... Why wasn't one key enough, Sherlock?'

'What if it was to assure one holder of a key that the other key could not access the secret alone? Two keys are required to expose some secret, worthy of a professor's life.'

'But the professor had the two keys.'

'Maybe the second one just came to him. He knew that if the second person had parted with their key, it was just a matter of time before he was traced for the second key. He grabbed the mysterious chest where he had hid his own key to come to us. Whatever mystery lies in those keys it's not one Scotland Yard would want to take upon themselves. He needed the irregular sort of help. He needed Sherlock Holmes and doctor Watson. Just before he left his hotel room, however, something had convinced him of the imminent and grave danger he was under. Maybe someone was watching him from the street below. Maybe he had a threatening phone call. He knew there was little time left. He had possibly pocketed the second key, the one that the second party on the secret had mailed him, or even handed him in person. The professor took it in his hand, and deciding it was too dangerous to be found in the possession of both keys – but what other choice did he have? – he swallowed the solitary key. Must have been slightly uncomfortable but I'll wager he wasn't paying too much attention to that. He rushed over to Baker Street, to engage our services. The rest we can surmise by the consequences we observed.'

'What did he want from us? To safeguard the keys or what they hold in secrecy? To stop his killers from reaching him?'

'He was the honourable sort of person, John, we know that from his final moments' decisions. He risked his life to get to us, to impart those keys and their meaning.'

'He had swallowed one of them, mate', I say, drily.

Sherlock is not bothered. 'It would have come out. Eventually.'

'Ugh!'

'You're the doctor who just had your hands up his guts, John, don't be squeamish now. Those two keys hold a secret that was worth a man's life. That is our case. To find it, and to decide how to best keep it safe. Oh, and to get the bad guys for the murder of the professor too.'

'Just that?' I ask, sarcastically.

'And whatever else comes our way', Sherlock smirks with a daring glow in his grey-green eyes.

With that he leans back with the smugness of a self-satisfied feline and takes the small wooden chest of his pocket, nimbly playing with it using his long, serious fingers.

I suppose he could, in desperation, just smash it. Maybe he fears destroying the key along with the box. More likely, the detective can't give up on a small puzzle without putting up a good fight. And we're back on our way to the train station. The professor was from the York University. Greg Lestrade, our invaluable friend from Scotland Yard, has been up to the professor's hotel room in Piccadilly and found nothing much. Sherlock is convinced the professor was to tell us the beginning of a secret, and that he wouldn't have carried both the keys to it and the mechanisms of it together, not when there was always the chance that someone was onto that secret. No, Sherlock Holmes believes the rest must have stayed back where the professor believed it the most protected, in his office in York.

It's a man's lost life we're unravelling now, sure that it will lead us to a secret of the utmost importance.

 _ **.**_

The campus is bustling with young people, back and forth, chatting, playing cards, taking endless selfies of themselves with friends and greasy foods. The tall lean detective in a suit and cashmere scarf, and the short sturdy doctor in casual trousers and a jumper don't quite fit the mould here, but so does no one else. There's diversity and energy all around us.

We rush up some wide stone steps and head on to the university professor's personal office.

A young associate professor lets us in without too many questions as soon as Sherlock produces one of Lestrade's nicked old IDs.

In the organised chaos energy of the faculty, the professor's cool, shaded office hits us like a secular space of knowledge and research.

Collections of books line the walls. A central island desk is covered with cartographical representation of terrain, military survey maps and pages upon pages of calculations. I approach them instinctively, hands behind my back as I lean over the pile, trying to identify the location being studied, just under a compass and a camping lamp.

'This guy could have been Indiana Jones', I comment, surprised. 'Why all this? What was he up to?'

'Who would know?' Sherlock adds to my questions.

I look over at the door we closed behind us. 'The assistant?'

'No. The professor clearly didn't trust his assistant. You can tell by the wrinkles in the sleeve cuffs that the assistant is in the habit of twisting when nervous, that he often felt left out by the professor.'

 _Really?_ Sherlock is one to notice the smallest details.

Professor Chandler's desk is an old piece, straight from an antiquity or the university's early days. Sherlock immediately discovers an inbuilt safe behind the middle panel. Two small but potent locks.

'We found the locks.'

'It needs two keys to be open. It does seem so. John?'

On call, I produce the first key – on an evidence bag. He too takes out the second key; still enveloped in a mysterious box with no apparent way of opening. Sherlock fiddles desperately with the small wooden box once again, with just as little success as before. He's about to snap; throw the box against the wall, put it on the floor and jump on it – I _know he is_ – when I intervene with a sigh.

'Can I try?'

 _Buy some time, John._

Sherlock obliges me, against his better judgement it seems. He hands over the box with deep resentment towards the inanimate object.

I take the small box and take some steps towards the small fridge in the corner of the room. I grab a door magnet (in the shape of a bird with spread wings, probably picked up in some holiday abroad) and magnet side outward, I bring it close to the box. Sherlock is also approaching, equally magnetized by my actions, it'd seem. I smirk softly. _I think I got this, Sherlock._ I hover the magnet over the boxes sides until suddenly a loud wood crackle surprises us and at once all the little drawers spring forward, released. All the other drawers being simple decoys. The mysterious box reveals its inner secrets.

I shake the little box, carefully, to let out the tiny key hidden in one of the drawers. I hand it to Sherlock at once.

He gulps drily and, never commenting my methods, he just politely says: 'Thank you, John.'

My smirk grows freely just as he turns his back on me.

 _You didn't ask, mate!_

 _ **.**_

The gentle, precise fingers of the musician unlock simultaneously the hidden compartment of professor Chandler's desk. I realise I'm holding my breath. _That's alright, so is Sherlock._

The reasonably large open compartment reveals only one object, and the singleness of the secret only highlights the importance of our finding. A book, a very old book, centuries old, waits to be discovered inside those wood panels walls.

Sherlock reaches forward and picks up the book, bringing it close, held between us.

My friend holds in his careful fingers a browned sixteenth century collection of manuscripts, bounded by reddish leather and highlighted by a golden title. Crackling under the pressure of gentle fingertips the thick parchment pages of the book are now being revealed. Sherlock carefully unbuckles the leather strap through an oxidized metal loop, where no mortal fingers have touched for centuries. My friend opens the book midway – _that's not how you read a book, you need to start at the beginning!_ – and pages upon pages of vividly bright and colourful pictures and gothic style writings flicker in front of our eyes.

For its age and rarity alone this book should be worth a lot of money to a private collector or the carefully acclimatized archives of a university research lab. But that would be to deprive the world of knowledge on this piece for another five centuries to come; and that's a loss we didn't want to find ourselves responsible for.

'There', Sherlock's keen eye finds an image in particular among the constellations and maps of extinct civilisations at the edges of the known world, the mythical creatures of fables, and the careful depiction of medicinal herbs for popular ailments. 'John...' the detective focuses with incredible concentration on one piece of knowledge on particular. 'We found the archetypal object the professor had embarked on a quest to find. It's called The Mirror of Souls, John.'

I frown. Bloody pompous titles. _Doesn't quite tell us what to do with it, does it?_

'Why is it called like that?'

Sherlock's green eyes travel fast on the lines of the page. I let him summarise it for me: 'Legend has it you fill the mirror bowl with water and upon its reflection on a full moon you see those souls that haunt you, thus enabling you to converse with them. Oh, hang on, you need an hallucinogenic tea for that second part! But the water surface gazing is free of charge, John.'

I shake my head. 'Even if we were to believe all that, where would it leave us?'

'On a path, John. It's a stepping stone. On the trail of making ourselves worthy of the reveal of a much bigger treasure.'

'It's a step in a journey, a quest?' I gather, paraphrasing it. He nods. 'On the way to where?'

He shrugs. 'The holy grail? I don't know.'

I blink, stunned. _Only one way to find out, huh?_

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	86. Chapter 86

_A/N: I've fixed a few typos. I've been reduced to producing chapters on my phone, and the evil thing has an autocorrect with a mind of its own. At the end I go over the text and try to fix as much as I can, but lately there's a lot that I miss (and I really shouldn't). Thank you for your patience, I really feel terrible for this. Still I bet there are some more errors in this chapter. Some of them I probably can't blame on my phone either!_

 _Still not British, a writer, or anything other than myself. -csf_

* * *

 _ **4.**_

'Did you hear that!'

Sherlock startled me suddenly, rescuing my mind from miles away. _Right_. We're visiting the dead professor's office, we just broke into his desk safe and we're holding a leather bounded collection of centuries old manuscripts that detail the metaphorical journey steps of an archetypal treasure hunt.

'Heard what?'

Sherlock rolls his eyes at me, before admonishing me: 'I told you we were being followed by the ones who stabbed the professor, John! Have you seriously forgotten life-threatening danger so easily?'

'But that was in the taxi. Back in London!'

'Killers can board trains too, John. They followed us here.'

My hands ball into tight fists. 'Well, we can handle them.'

For an instant, Sherlock looks fleetingly frightened, it seems, before an inexpressive mask falls into place. _Scared?_ I've never seen Sherlock scared of criminals before. Must have imagined it all.

'As much as it'd possibly do you good to vent your anger, John, we have ourselves an important object to safeguard. We must elude them, John! They mustn't get these medieval works or the professor's life has been in vain.'

I take a deep breath. 'I brought my gun with me.'

He smirks fondly. 'Good old John Watson', he murmurs under his breath. 'Always brings the gun to the knife fight.'

 _ **.**_

Sherlock glances out of the minimally open door to the corridor. As he glances back to me, his dark curls bounce slightly, above his magnetic eyes. He looks alive, daring, tantalising. Sherlock can't ever convince me he's only in these cases for the mental exercise. The thrill is there in him as it is in me.

'The corridor is empty, John', he reports back. So far so good. We've got a plan. Sherlock takes the lead, with the priceless manuscripts, and I cover his back, with my gun. _Simple_. We fall into our usual places with the habit of routine.

A sharp sound behind me and I whirl around with my gun trailed to its origin. As soon as I catch sight of my target, though, I'm letting out a groan.

There's a man pointing a gun to a hostage's head. The hostage is the professor's assistant who struggles ineffectively to break the choke hold of his captor. This is a dangerous situation, escalating quickly.

'Sherlock...' In my voice I try to convey disappointment, defeat, despondency. They are after the book, and we'll be forced to hand it over.

From behind me, Sherlock is not too shy to take the lead: 'What do you want?'

The threatening man keeps hold of his hostage and himself in the shadowy portion of the corridor.

'The professor's book. Hand it over!'

'A book? Have you tried the library?'

I squint. It's no time to be funny, Sherlock!

I've lowered my gun, useless as I can't fire without compromising the hostage's safety. The man with the gun might shoot too, and the frightened assistant is only a bystander.

'The book!' the man yells; and in an explosive twist he swings the gun's aim our way.

Right. _That changes everything._ I grab the book from Sherlock's hands, acting like I'm caving in. I hold it up with my left. The gun's aim is slowly locked on me. I lower my gun in defeat.

Sherlock advises, tensely: 'Just give him the book, John.'

'Slide it over!' the armed crook demands.

 _And that's his mistake._ He should have asked for my gun first. Secure the conflict, you see.

'Okay, okay, don't shoot.'

I lower myself to the ground slowly, laying down the book. I push it forward, the thick leather binding is scratched on the floor as it moves towards the criminal... but it stops halfway there.

'Oops', I comment.

The man curses. 'Hand it over!' he decides instead.

 _Keeps changing his mind, doesn't he?_ And getting tenser by the second.

I step forward decisively.

'John...' Sherlock murmurs my name as I leave him behind. He seems to know instinctively that I'm on a mission. A captain Watson mission.

The assistant struggles to free himself a little harder. The criminal just holds him tighter.

I bend towards the book on the floor.

'Oh, my back...' I mutter, with a groan.

'Come on! Can't you hurry—'

He doesn't get to finish his curses. From the lower perspective I flick the gun's barrel upwards and put the nozzle straight into the book's cover. Just an undercover flick, but who needs to do the whole extended arm flair style of gun pointing to target anyway, and I fire a single shot.

The noise is muffled by centuries of parchment paper. Sherlock groans in despair, he never had me shoot a bullet hole through his case's main lead. The criminal falls to the ground with a crushed kneecap. Somewhere in the distance there are giggles, no one seems to have taken notice of the gunshot, thus avoiding mass panic. The assistant scurried away from his captor to our side of the corridor, unscathed and free, if a bit traumatised.

'Are you nuts?' he won't hold back his tongue now he's free to talk: 'You two are nuts!'

Sherlock haughtily eyes him and informs: 'You can go now. John took care of the gunman. Don't leave town, though. The Yard will want to have a word.'

'Keep away from me! I'm telling all of this to the professor, you know?'

'No, you're not', Sherlock deadpans.

'Yes, I am!'

'What would professor Chandler do? Flunk us?'

I call my friend's name, warningly. I've got another patient in my hands, bleeding out on the floor – and this time I put him here. _A little help?_

The detective takes up his phone lazily and comments: 'Are we to be considered as _regulars_ by the emergency services?'

I blink. 'Probably.' I'm keeping pressure on the wound while checking the patient's vitals.

 _ **.**_

'What do you mean "it wasn't the real book"? Sherlock, why didn't you tell me?'

'It was a comprehensive English language dictionary I picked up in the professor's office, John, and covered with the leather binding from the original; and you shooting the English language wasn't particularly out of character, if I may add. As to a forewarning, John, I remember explicitly telling you to hand over the book? Why would I advise that if it was the priceless manuscript that our case depends on?'

I send him a heavy stare. 'Because the assistant's life was at stake?' I reply, in utter disbelief.

'Oh, _him_? He wasn't helpful nor polite to us, John.'

I giggle, because I can sense the joke in the wrinkled corners of Sherlock's eyes.

I sigh and lean back on the amphitheatre uncomfortable chair. Sherlock, with his usual larger than the room personality, has taken the stage like front of the classroom and paces the wooden floor in front of a big board. Sherlock the teacher. _I'd love to attend his lectures on the science of deduction._

 _I guess I already do._

'You look smug', he comments from afar.

I shrug. 'I've got a good life', I say. My friend eyes me curiously. I guess he can't always read my mind, at least not from ten feet away.

 _ **.**_

'Candelus...'

'What's that?'

The genius raises his eyes from the manuscript pages. He's been immersed in the Latin language writings for a good while, and his meal is turning cold. Around us, the soft murmur of the restaurant dinners gives us a sense of privacy, a timely pause in the case's path.

DI Lestrade has been called and he's making his way over, under express demand of the consulting genius.

'Candelus is the name of the author of most of these documents. He announced himself as a traveller, an investigator in search of local history and the land's old grandeur to put on record for the future generations.'

'Ambitious.'

'He records the year as the King's year of sixteen hundred and – well, something.' My friend raises green tinged eyes again and comments: 'The rest of the date seems to have been obliterated at some point.'

I take a slow bite, curious, but Sherlock is silently studying the book once again.

As I'm finishing my meal, Sherlock mutters under his breath: 'I should have seen it! It was right there, before my very own eyes!'

'What?' I ask, utterly lost.

'Chandler. Candelus. They are old names, all with a common route. The same that gives us the words "chandelier" and "candelabra". Related to candles, and light, and illuminating the world with knowledge and reason.'

'What's in a name?' I mutter. 'Only your whole life quest, I suppose.'

'Maybe what is in your surname is exactly what is in your bloodline. Names evolve, John. With enough small tweaks we get from Candelus in Latin, to Chandler as we know it nowadays.'

'The creator of the mystery was the professor's ancestor', I understand. Looking down on the object I add: 'This was his to inherit.'

'No', Sherlock says, shaking his head but oddly smiling. 'The professor wanted to safeguard and offer it to the world, when the time was right. He didn't think of a treasure as his possession. It was more like Chandler was his guardian.'

'And now?'

'It's fairly safe to assume we are its guardians now, John.'

I nod; challenge accepted.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	87. Chapter 87

_A/N: I've been to York, but other than general descriptions from memory, the rest is made up on the spot. -csf_

* * *

 _ **5.**_

'London's a bit stuffy for this time of the year', DI Lestrade comments conversationally, arriving at professor Chandler's office. I can see that he took no time for himself, instead coming straight to us. 'Glad you guys called me hundreds of miles up here for a gang reunion of sorts. Just... did you really have to shoot the guy's kneecap, John?'

Sherlock interrupts any possible answer I may come up with, at once: 'John was protecting the assistant's life, inspector. He is the ungrateful hostage. I won't attempt to teach you your job, but maybe you should question him instead?'

The grey haired man smirks. 'I'll do that when the hospital gives me the all clear. Next, you're going to persuade me that our John was aiming to the side to frighten the guy, but hit him by mistake.'

Sherlock grunts some intelligible reply. 'If it fits your report, inspector... My memory is conveniently blurry.'

'Yeah, I'm real creative nowadays, Sherlock, with all your training...' Then turning back to me, he holds up his pen and pad to summon: 'Tell me John, how did this case you two are working on, come about?'

I think back for a second. I owe my friend the truth. Evidently he can get creative afterwards, on his own.

'I killed the university's professor', I start, ordering my thoughts. Greg's pen and pad drop in his grasp, and suddenly he's looking at me, mouth agape, eyebrows up, and a worried expression.

'You killed someone? Where's the body? You haven't let Sherlock keep it, have you?' he enquires, incredulous still. He glances at Sherlock, who is busying himself by studying the names of the literary volumes on the late professor's shelves. Looking me up and down, Greg adds: 'Did you really have to tell me, John? Do you have any idea of the paperwork? Did you _really_ kill someone? You know; dead, stiff and gone?'

That last insistence may have been the result of wishful thinking, that I'd change my answer if questioned times enough, or he still won't believe me capable, at large and in bulk.

'Yes, I did. Not with a gun or a poison, or anything like that. I just couldn't stop the bleeding.'

Greg face lights up. 'Hang on! Is this about the old man that croaked in your living room? John, you didn't _kill_ him! Why would you say something like that to an officer of the law at an active crime scene?'

Sherlock quips in: 'John still feels guilty.' The inspector almost jumps, not having noticed Sherlock navigating the space behind him until he was just over his shoulder. Sherlock smirks to himself and turns away. 'Despite all my attempts at redirection', he adds with his back firmly turned on us.

I sigh. 'Sherlock, you don't just—'

The Baker Street's detective turns abruptly, angrily. 'Why not?' he interrupts me, tense. 'Use your reason instead of your heart for once, John! You are not to be blamed, the killer is!'

'I can't! I'm not a beacon of rationality, cold as an ice cube!' I blurt out before I can measure my words. _Hurtful, undeserved words._

Sherlock pushes Greg out of the way, inelegantly, his steel greying eyes trailed relentlessly on me.

'Why are you not angry with me, John? Really angry? I was there. You taught me first aid and I know as much of the functioning of the human body as you do – albeit in a different perspective, and mostly after the heart has ceased to work. Never mind. Why don't you blame me? Why aren't you angry with me?' he eyes me cuttingly from his imposing height, higher now as he's invading my personal space, only millimetres apart. _Only Sherlock Holmes can bully me to reason by standing as near as only a close friend naturally places himself._

Greg sighs and pulls us apart. 'Stop it you two! Sherlock, cut it out. John, we're going to get to the bottom of this, right now!'

I snort derisively. 'There's nothing going on, so how will you sort it?'

'Easy. Us three, to the pub, right now. It's about time you get it off your chest. We'll listen. I'm not in a hurry to go back to London to type this report, anyways.'

Sherlock raises a brow, surprised, but seems intent to give the new method a go.

I'm pushed over by my two friends, who refuse to take No for an answer.

 _ **.**_

As it turns out, Greg only returns to London the night is already setting over the city and the river banks. Ducks, swans and seagulls have been parading before us over the murky waters that flow under the cast iron bridge, painted white, as the sun downs. We have made our temporary home by the tourist cruise trips peers, sat on the uncomfortable wooden deck chairs of The River Pirates pub, pondering life at the bottom of each pint glass.

That someone would set up a pub over the river banks seems to me terrible foresight, as I wobble on my feet, getting up to bid goodbye to the wise – sober – detective inspector.

He's got a long drive home. Sherlock and I will stick around a while longer, looking for mirrored souls, and—

'The Mirror of Souls, John', Sherlock aids me, without me having to ask. He has read my mind. 'You're drunk, by the way.'

 _Always infuriatingly correct, Sherlock._

In the end, we decide to take up rooms for the night at the closest available location.

 _ **.**_

A cold brisk morning greets us as we approach the medieval, cobble-stoned, winding streets of the old historical town centre. Narrow houses hunch over the crowded sidewalks, calamitous buildings with wobbly façades, stained glass window panes and low height doors hiding murky entrances with mosaics of tiles, wood and stone of layer upon layer of historical adaptation. Nowadays most seem to be stores, housing all sorts of businesses. Window displays filled with coloured glass, rich woollen fabrics and sweetshops, side by side with the modern brands and the head splitting brightness of electric lighting.

Not just the stores shout for our constant attention. Street performers animate the cool morning air; musicians, poets, tour guides and jugglers, each show overlapping with the next, in a continuous string of stimuli.

Every few buildings, small and squat, with their sloped zinc roof tiles and overhanging second stories, there's a tight entrance to some small alleyway; leading to internal common areas, mostly occupied by pubs and restaurants, cosied up among the surrounding buildings. Here or there, a tiny church yard garden or a clump of market stalls with handcrafted goods.

'Right', I say, as I often do, as I gather my thoughts. 'Sherlock, how will you know what we are looking for?'

My friend glances at me, apparently well impressed that I have initiated a conversation.

The detective suspects I have a lingering hangover.

'We are looking for the origin of the book that was in the professor's possession, of course.'

'Of course', I second, amused. 'You think the professor found it in an old bookshop in town? Just like that?'

Sherlock ponders my doubt. 'It may have been directly brought to his attention, with him being a scholar of the archaeological discoveries.'

I look around us. 'There are dozens of bookshops here, plus they sell second-hand books at charity shops. How will we find the right one?'

'We find the professor's regular supplier, John. After all, even for a common person this medieval collection of texts is impressive. A rapport of trust must have been already in place, of course.'

We stop in front of a tiny, dimly lit bookshop, that features a window display full of mismatched books, and further regurgitates discount volumes on a wooden stand outside. I wouldn't be surprised if they sold books by weight, rather than by title.

'So how did you know where the professor usually got his reading materials?'

'I checked the other books on the shelves while I waited, upon your disastrous conversation with Lestrade, of course.'

I'm impressed. We all saw the walls lined with books at the professor's office, no one else thought of that.

'Of course', I repeat, with a smile, and follow my friend inside the small bookshop.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	88. Chapter 88

_A/N: Still not British, a writer... or an adventurer (which is too bad, I could use a new job). -csf_

* * *

 _ **6.**_

The small independent bookshop we were looking for turns out to be an old-fashioned place, lined with heavy wooden bookshelves almost all the way around us. Almost, for there's a small lonely dissonant space at a corner, where a long desk sits a modern computer, a somewhat modern phone and an absolutely ancient pocket telescope as a piece of decor. There is lingering smell of repeated cups of fragrant tea and old paper pages in the air, and the place is absolutely quiet, with only whispers of conversations from passers by on the street and the odd children's shriek of joy as the day wears on outside.

The shop has the undeniable feeling of a true introspect's paradise, yet what strikes me the most important is that I don't feel like we've just trespassed on someone else's private lair. The heavy bookshelves are inviting, as if they asked me to sit about and learn those book's tales, hear of old adventures, snuggle up to learn the rudiments of a new language, and browse the yellowed pages for other life stories, old kings' battles and their tales of honour and bravery.

I find my tension deflating, I'm exhaling slowly, deeply, in a homely feeling place, that I have never visited before.

Then it hits me. _It feels a bit like Baker Street._

 _Maybe I just like other people's hopeless clutter_ , I suppose.

Slowly, naturally, I come to realise that Sherlock has followed me around like a faithful shadow. I glance up to the green hued eyes of my taller friend, trying to figure out what got him do worked up. He's not looking relaxed at all, and as if by immediate osmosis I feel that tension crawling up my skin again.

'We're interrupting something, John. Have your gun ready. They are likely still around.'

I blink. Sherlock's cautionary words shatter the last remnants of quietude somewhat. A new feeling takes over. Adrenaline fuelled, daring, lucky. I obey the request of a gun instinctively, but wonder 'How do you know?'

He sniffs the air. 'Gunpowder. Recently deflagrated.'

I almost feel a shiver down my spine. _How did I miss that?_

Or did I? _Baker Street_ , with its shot at walls. Maybe I did notice it, in the back of my mind.

I take out my gun; you know, just to air it a little bit. Come what may.

'What does that mean? The man who used the professor's assistant as hostage wasn't working alone?'

Sherlock is gliding, rather than pacing, across the room. Silent steps as he studies every nook and crevice for deadly traps.

'No. We're facing an organisation intent on stopping us and reaching the end goal first.'

'This is crazy!'

Sherlock harshly whispers back: 'You tell them that, by all means, John!' There's reproach in the way he sharply looks at me, before he glances over the desk counter at the corner. His lips tighten at once.

'Sherlock?' I ask, feeling oddly rooted to the spot.

He's found something. More likely, _someone_.

I, a doctor, not rushing to a patient; there's a first.

'This one's quite dead, John', he dismisses me at once, waving his hand. 'Nothing you can do about this one', Sherlock reports coldly.

 _Deflagrated gunpowder._

I shudder in silence, before I get my act together. I need to make sure, confirm Sherlock's glance reading of the victim, assure myself that there's no more I can do for someone's life.

'So they found what they came for', I say, exhaling, as I cross the room. No need to whisper anymore either. 'The shopkeeper wouldn't have been shot dead if they were still looking for whatever brought them over.'

Sherlock keeps utterly quiet. I could be deceived into thinking he's worrying about me again, but I can see the expression on his face, the one that says that in his mind the cogs are turning at hypersonic speed, deductions are popping up, being analysed, stored or dismissed. His fingertips are restless as they trace minute and mysterious patterns in the air, beside his thighs. My old friend is working hard on this one, but I'm afraid in this case were always just a bit too late, and don't have nearly enough clues.

A loud crash comes to jerk us back to action. The sound seemed to come from under the very floorboards of the store's flooring. _Someone is still poking around the premises._ Likely in the cellar. _The game is not over yet!_

Sherlock and I glance at each other in unison as we spring to action with appreciation for our sudden lucky break.

I head on first, to the flimsy door that leads to the cellar. Sherlock is steady behind me, just taking one extra second to snatch that old looking telescope from the counter. Sometimes I'm not entirely sure if my friend is deducing again, or if he's a small time kleptomaniac - never missing a chance to add to 221B's eclectic clutter.

The cellar door's lock gives in easily on its battle with my shoulder, and without delay we rush down the narrow, abrupt slope, entrenched in dark musky concealment.

'Hurry, John, we're losing him!'

I frown, but follow the elemental directives in my friend's voice; I'd trust it any day, even over my own judgement.

'It's a cellar, there's no way out!' I remind the detective, as I grab on tighter to my gun.

'I can feel drafts!' he hisses, angrily. 'The cellar in the adjacent house must be connected!'

I rush over the last steps, free hand scrapping over the uneven walls to feel my way. As if realising my difficulties, a torch light pierces the dark from Sherlock's phone behind me. It brings a new breath to our chase, as I suddenly discern a rapid move at the furthest part of the small, cramped cellar, full of discarded cardboard boxes and a couple of mismatched chairs.

'There!' I impress my voice with the enthusiasm of a pursuit that nears its end. Instinctively I know Sherlock is faithfully behind me; Sherlock is the one being in this world that I can always count on, could stake my life on it.

'Hurry, John, he's getting away!'

Sherlock must have seen it first. The killer - and possible book hater - is already forcing open a communication door that seems to lead to the side property. Upon noticing us, he briskly grabs hold of a tower of boxes and yanks it over towards us.

My mistake was assuming the boxes were empty. I raised my arms in front of my face as a defence to the cardboard assault. Instead the boxes and their content tumble down, strewn books all over the dirty floor, impeding our passage.

We start climbing over the books, whose new lustrous covers slide over each other, making us lose balance a couple of times, slamming against their hard edges.

I get up from another tumble just about a moment too late to meet an impending bullet, that whirls past overhead. That naturally slows us down, and by the time we finally reach the communication door, we find it tight locked from the other side. Not ready to admit defeat, I take a deeper breath, step back and try to ram the door down with a good shoulder tackle.

The door shakes in its hinges but won't budge. I shake my head to dissipate those dark spots gathering cloudily in my vision, and give it another go. Same result. I'm stubbornly going all out on a third one when Sherlock sharply calls my name, reaches out and grabs me from my starting point.

I just about fall backwards against my friend. At the same time the door gets rattled by sharp metal pellets and not a moment later I can hear the shotgun discharge that has lodged all those small projectiles in the wood separating us.

I blink, stunned. Either Sherlock heard something, or he accurately deduced the near future with spooky exactitude.

'Ta, mate', I say, my voice coming across a bit shaky.

He won't have any of that. _In his mind, saving my life is just like me saving his; a given, not worth debating._

It's a mad man's way of seeing the world, and I'm proud to be a part of such devoted, true friendship.

We get back to the communication door as soon as we sense the danger is gone. This time it only takes one small push to have the derelict barrier wielding to us.

Much to our surprise, we don't find the next door's cellar on the other side. No one's prized wine collection, an adolescent's games room or someone's washer and drier. No, we find the oddest construction under the old-fashioned bookstore. It's got electric light running along the ceiling from a heavy electrical cable. Unfinished with light bulbs in rudimentary metal cages pending every few feet along the same trail that is lined on the rough stone and concrete floor by a narrow set of rails. It extends beyond our line of sight, engulfed by the trailing darkness of distance. And there, just by the entrance door, a metal cart, its wheels firmly planted on the oxidised metal rails. Other than those important elements of decor, the place is bare but for cobwebs and debris from the jagged edges walls.

'Sherlock? Are we in some sort of county faire ride?' I voice our doubts, unsure.

'Consider it a freebie, John', Sherlock advises with a daring smirk, as he steps in on the small cart. The gangly tall genius seems to occupy the whole of the cart, but he expectantly refuses to release the lever brake before I join him. 'Coming?'

I shrug. Who cares if it's safe? When is the world by Sherlock's side ever safe? It'd be boring and predictable.

'Old mine trail?' I try to wrap my head around It, as I put away my gun and hop in the cart.

Sherlock shrugs. 'No, I think someone created this. For what purpose I'm not entirely sure.' My mad friend eyes me intently. 'Let's find out!' and he releases the old break.

The cart sits on the two parallel railings, and, as expected, there's a minor slope on the uneven ground. At least, it starts that way. _Minor_. It soon deepens, gaining traction and momentum.

The velocity imprints wind blowing over my friend's dark curls, and the danger flushes his cheeks. His eyes are lively as he stares the trail that seemingly raises from the darkness to meet us at an impressive speed, and getting quicker by the second. I hold on to the cart's side in sheer desperation. Sherlock senses my movement and makes sure to grab on to both sides of the cart (his arms length more encompassing than mine), and in the process shamelessly pinning me down, bolting me to relative safety.

'Sherlock, where are we going?' I ask, in a shaky voice, that I can't quite blame exclusively on the repetitive clanking of our cart over the tracks.

'We're back on the wagon, John!'

 _What?_ 'Sherlock, that expression makes no sense in our present situation!'

'Why not? We had lost control of the case. It's no more appropriate as a metaphor than alcohol to your sister and her recov—'

No time to explain English idioms to Sherlock as we both recognise at the same time that the tracks are to abruptly end before us.

'Hit the brakes, John!' Sherlock shouts. Only then I realise that I have a lever by my side as well. I pull on it just as Sherlock. Metal grinds on metal – we should wisely have started slowing down ages ago – and sparks fly at either side of our mock amusement park caddy. 'Pull harder, John!' the detective insists, tension etched in each word.

'I am!' I protest unfairly. _I know he's frightened. So am I._

Too soon it's the end of the parallel tracks, and it's in bleak dusk that our cart bumps against some last railing protection, lifting off sideways from the tracks, projecting us across the darkened remnants of dirt and unfinished stone ground.

I grunt and lose my breath as I crash hard on the harsh ground. With almost no last minute's notice I hardly had the time to brace the lanky genius' head so he wouldn't knock his noggin too hard on the ground. I can just about feel the harsh lungful of air he lets go off as he painfully hits the ground with a strong impact. Then it all goes blurry in front of me, as I feel the jagged ground scrape at my back. We're slowing down, Sherlock and I, cocooned in each other's protective embrace; closer than any ordinary best friends usually find themselves.

I feel the world's contours adjusting as my sight sharpens again, adrenaline surging in my veins as my heart beats furiously and my breathing is left erratic.

'John!' Sherlock recuperates his speech capacity first, and he's not shy to use it as a weapon over me. 'John, talk to me!' he shouts.

I feel almost like giggling. We haven't let go of each other. Can't he hear my heart beats, my harsh gulps of air; can't he tell I'm alive and breathing, with his vast deductive powers?

The rational detective is lost in his concern over me. He shouldn't. I'm fine. Just fine...

'Sherlock, I'm—' I blink excessively. 'I'm about to throw up, let go of me' I finish instead, strained.

He lets go of me at once, and supervises me with a both smug and soft smile.

'Head trauma, John', he diagnoses easily. 'Despite my best efforts', he adds in a soft whisper.

I raise myself from the dirt ground in shaky arms. 'Nah, it's nothing. I'm just not accustomed to flying at such low altitudes... Sherlock, are you alright? Broken bones? Contusions? Cuts? Deductions?'

He steadies me with gentle fingers. I get this nagging idea that our roles are reversed.

'Sherlock, he's getting away', I remind him with a queasy stomach yet firm intention.

He studies me for a couple of seconds. Not finding anything wrong in a lasting manner, he assures me: 'He's made a wrong move. He's exposed his secret.'

'What secret?'

'This tunnel, for instance. We have finally found our fighting chance to solve a centuries old mystery, John. You like those, don't you? They're much like your favourite fictional characters. What was the name again? Alabama Bones?'

I blink, then shake my head. 'Indiana Jones?' I try.

'I knew that! Just testing you, John! You're alright. No severe concussion.'

I giggle. _Yeah, right._

He giggles along, knowing he's not fooling me one bit. His knowledge of the adventure genre is terrible, but I sense we're about to get some hands-on experience with this case.

'I'm ready, Sherlock', I state, slowly getting up and swallowing a small groan. Not a soft landing, that one.

He nods, as if to his own thoughts on my condition, deeming me minimally up to scratch.

'The game is on', he assures me with a self-satisfied smirk.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	89. Chapter 89

_A/N: I remember being a child and asking my mother what these complicated words she privileged meant. She wasn't entirely patient, telling me to go see in the dictionary. I remember protesting "Mum, but I haven't learnt how to read or write yet!"_

 _This week I've come to realise some people I work with, even at a higher level at the organisation than me, can't spell words like Dictionary (Or Itinerary, or Systematic)._

 _Oh, the ever-too-easy irony at hand when someone can't spell Dictionary. It's like getting hit on the head with a First Aid kit._

 _And, sure, I can't consistently spell Steal/Steel, so who am I to have this monologue..._

 _But I keep going back to my mum, cooking on the stove, her hands full, telling me where to go find her words and make them mine too. Soon, so very soon, I learnt to read and write, and I loved that dictionary as much as a good storybook. The tales the unknown words promised me, with their foreign origins, alternative meanings and uses in idioms, and the cryptic pronunciation references._

 _These dictionary-less people I work with make me yearn to go fetch my English language dictionary, and snuggle up in the armchair with a cup of coffee, looking for meanings, and their underlying adventure, jumping from word to word, once again. Just like I did when I was a child, a long time ago, far away and in another language – only with a cup of milk back then._

 _I may also come to hit those people in the head with the dictionary, just in case it's the closest they'll get to one anytime soon. It's a shame the irony would be totally lost in them. -csf_

* * *

 _ **7.**_

Sherlock turns on the phone's torch light again. I fumble with my pocket to extract my phone and emulate him. Our combined light brings to sharper focus a vaulted room with three dense walls at the end of the tunnel, constructed out of unperturbed, continuous brick upon brick. Our beams of light roam the vast walls, revealing an array of colours ranging from rusty reds to grey-green mould patches, but finding no visible door or window. It seems to be a dead end.

I glance over my shoulder to the rails we travelled over and wonder _how_ are we supposed to travel back up to the beginning, if our cart was propelled down by gravity alone.

'Of course this isn't the end of the trail, John!' Sherlock reads my mind with ease, anticipating my concern.

'How do you know?' I dare to second guess him.

'Well, to start with, it would hardly be any fun.'

I smirk. Sherlock's world is a daring one, where often common sense rules don't apply. _Feels like anything is possible with Sherlock._

'Alright. So what do we do now?'

'We follow your instinct, John', the detectives assures me in all seriousness.

'My instinct? What do you mean _my_ instinct?'

My friend points the flash light app right at my face. I haste to put a hand up before the blinding light. Still squinting I try to get what he's up to.

'This case is your case, John.'

I frown, my hand slipping down a couple of inches before I catch myself. Still too bright, too uncomfortable.

'Because I must avenge the professor's death?'

'Yes. Well, no. Or maybe.'

I've never really seen Sherlock so speechless. I shoo away the blinding light, spots still gathering before my eyes.

'Which is it then?' I press my friend.

'John. I was hoping you'd come to your own deductions on this matter.'

'Obviously not. Come on, don't be shy!'

He ponders me like a particularly tough puzzle to crack.

'John, there were several books on the shelves of professor Chandler's office.'

'Yes, go on.'

'You did not study their titles.'

I shake my head. 'University stuff, no?'

'Yes. Well, no. Or most of it.'

 _He's doing it again._

'I'm still listening', I remind him, as I cross my arms tightly in front of me.

'John, you are a writer.'

I shake my head in conviction. 'I've blogged about my life, and our work together. Mostly about the work. Or you.' I can feel myself blush with the admission.

'You are a private person, John, I understand that, whereas I'm an interesting one', Sherlock asserts magnanimously. I can see the humour in his eyes, as he just couldn't help himself. 'But your accounts of our cases have peaked the public's curiosity. A publisher made a deal with you.'

'Us', I remind Sherlock tersely.

'Us', he concedes impatiently. 'There was a collection of blog entries published as short stories, I believe.'

'Yeah. And you know all about it. What about it?'

'The professor had your book, John.'

'Our book', I correct automatically. _Had he?_

'He wasn't looking for a detective that day. He was looking for a writer. Someone who could perpetuate an important story, give the secret of a few scarce men to the benefit of the whole world. We know that's what he valued; honour, bravery. He came to you, John, because he wanted you to give the world the knowledge of his lost society.'

'To _us_.' Again, it's automatic. I blink. 'You lost me at "writer", Sherlock.' I unfold my arms, feeling oddly light headed and confused. Maybe it hit my head too hard upon landing on the harsh ground. I rub my face with my dusty palm. 'I'm not a writer. I may be a bit of a story teller, but—'

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'You're stubborn, John!'

'I keep telling you I'm not, will you listen!' I protest as my friend is turning his back on me. He chuckles, and I sigh. 'You're not listening, Sherlock!'

Suddenly I stop short. Aimlessly pacing about, suddenly I hear a small creaking sound, under my feet. Like old wood, strained under a sudden increase of weight.

Sherlock heard it too. He turns abruptly, a glint in his eyes – all banters over and done with now.

'You found it, John! Our way out. A trapdoor under the rubble.'

I frown on the deceptive exit door planted on the ground, accusingly. _Sherlock deduces things, I find my clues by mere accident. That's how we roll._

'What are we waiting for?' I snap at once.

 _ **.**_

'I can't see a thing, but I can hear— Sherlock, I can hear birds singing', I report with a frown. I glance down, from the top of this old creaky wood step ladder we found at the end of a secret passage, under a trapdoor, at the end of an underground tunnel, under the medieval streets of York. Our phones have died out a short while ago, plunging us into pitch black darkness.

'What kind of a bird?' the detective asks me naturally.

'I don't know. Winged? Feathered?'

I'm not sure if I'm sarcastic or exasperated.

'John, do try to focus! You overwork me!'

I blink. _What?_ 'A robin, maybe?'

'Better, John, keep it up, but it's a goldfinch. I can hear it from here.'

'Then why would you even ask—?' I sigh. 'You know what? Never mind... Shall I just open the new trapdoor over my head?'

'No need to be terse, John. You can always read my next blog post on the identification of British birds and their mating rituals.'

'I think I know a thing or two about that, mate...'

'John, the trapdoor?'

The dry, coarse wood of the steps supporting me creaks under the extra weight. I put up a valiant effort, but every single time I push I can only dislodge it a couple of millimetres before it falls heavily down again.

'Sherlock, I—'

'Let's swap. You are weakened, I must take over.'

'I'm perfectly fine to—'

I'm just about manhandled, notwithstanding an incredible gentleness, and forced back down a few steps. Sherlock takes over at once.

'Two goldfinches, in fact', he deduces, intensely.

 _They're birds, Sherlock, just birds._

My friend takes over the Herculean task of raising the stuck trapdoor. As soon as he manages the same millimetres I did he jams across the passage a longish piece of metal. Constructing a lever.

 _Hey, that's unfair advantage!_

Sherlock rather use brains than brawl. That's how we roll.

 _ **.**_

'What can you see?' I wait for the delayed answer with suspended breath.

'An octagonal room, with windows all around, an anticlockwise circular stairwell at the centre, a reception desk with local attraction flyers and several display cabinets. Oh, and a small scale astronomical model of the planets in the Solar System, John.'

I squint. _So he has actually learnt something of the Solar System, who would have thought?_

'Right', I say and clear my throat. 'Where are we again?'

'Some small, old-fashioned astronomical observatory, John', he retorts with absolute casualness.

 _Naturally, Sherlock._

He's acting like he's not surprised and he had been expecting this all along.

 _Sherlock's world is an enticing, mad man's dream._

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	90. Chapter 90

_A/N: That was a good cup of coffee. I'm wide awake, slightly paranoid, my hands are trembling, and I want to tackle all the troubles in the world. Grrreat coffee, that one. The double portion was totally worth it._

 _Also, I'm wrapping it up for this story. -csf_

* * *

 _ **8.**_

York's astronomical observatory is a small hut nestled among exotic botanical specimens, in the city's gardens. Almost completely enshrined in vegetation, it's an eight sides building covered in white plaster, with the overall feeling of being slightly _small_. The window sills are low, the entrance door would make my friend hunch a bit in his towering height (I'm just fine with it, actually), the floor space inside is slightly narrow and the circular staircase wouldn't fit two people side by side. Something overall, however, makes it closer to cosy than claustrophobic.

The birds, that Sherlock keeps identifying for my benefit, circle the observatory. A grey squirrel has just come to check up on us by climbing up to the window and standing dead still, looking in, before scurrying away in his customary nuts hoarding haste.

It's quite a shock after the time elapsed under the city in a cramped, damp tunnel leading us away from the old merchant style streets, to find ourselves in a cool, freshly white-coated building, closed shutters on the windows all around us.

'What's the meaning of all this, Sherlock? Why the joy ride, why bring us here of all places?'

Sherlock Holmes produces the leather bounded volume from his coat pocket with a significant wink. I get stuck on the practical aspect of things. Has he been carrying that around all this time?

'Focus, John', he reads my mind easily. I give him a heavy stare, but secretly attempt to do just that. _Focus_. Yellowed pages in a mouldy book with some nice pictures in it and cryptic words in a dead language, an old bookshop with an up-to-date dead body, a track trail under the old city that brought us to an astronomical observatory in the middle of a natural park. I think I can hear tourists and locals enjoying the grass patches outside.

'No. I really don't get it, Sherlock. This is your thing, not mine.'

My friend presses his lips in annoyance. He opens one of the first pages of the book and recites—

— _Whatever that was._

Dead languages don't make much sense to me.

I cross my arms in front of me, and hazard a guess: 'You could do that again, this time in English?'

He blinks, a bit taken back. 'I can do it in about seven languages fluently, and three more just scrapping by. So, I gather you didn't follow? Was I too quick?'

'You were too clever', I tell him, with a sigh. Feeling a bit put off and left out, I confess: 'This is your case, Sherlock. The professor was utterly wrong. I couldn't solve this no more than any other regular guy. It takes Sherlock Holmes.'

Sherlock snaps the book shut suddenly. The noise echoes in the small chamber, making me jump.

'That's where you're wrong, John! And I'll tell you why. After all, an internet based translating programme would put you up to speed in no time. The text has plenty of flourished speech, of course, but in essence it talks of a journey. An initiation to the members of an elite group. People who have displayed incredible bravery, and loyalty, are invited to find the Mirror of Souls and use it to reveal the ultimate treasure. They are trusted to become this treasure's guardians and to come to the call of the association the day of the land's desperate call.'

I squint. 'An underground army? Under whose orders?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'Does it matter? Centuries have past.'

'Well, someone revived the treasure hunt...'

'Possibly hoping for a real, decadently rich treasure they can trade for modern day money. After all, they went to the trouble of killing the bookshop keeper and almost got the professor's annoying assistant.'

I blink. 'If it's not a real treasure', I start. 'A metaphor, then. But for what?'

'Only one way to find out, John', Sherlock finished alluring his partner, with a smug smile on his face.

The detective then _magic-pockets_ his way to extract the small telescope he snatched from the bookshop. _One of these days – I swear – I really must have a talk with Sherlock about his kleptomania, it's getting out of hand._

'What's that for? A piece of souvenir to take back from our underground expedition across York?'

Sherlock tosses the object twirling in the air and catches it deftly, before stating dreamily: 'What's it for? Always with the pertinent questions, John. I have absolutely no idea. _Let's find out._ '

 _ **.**_

The profusely illustrated book lies open over the guest's comments book on the small desk by the entry. Sherlock and I strain to make the best analysis of it under the stale daylight, filtered in through the cracks of the heavy wooden shutters. The air is stuffy but quite still inside the small hut, and carries the earthy scent of the garden outside.

'Calendula flowers, John. And a touch of yew, that in itself is an evergreen (incredibly poisonous too) with little scent, but the local specimens are centuries old, and meters high and wide.'

I nod, feeling that Sherlock keeps giving his free deductions as if in an effort to keep me up to par with him on this case; that he insists should be my case to solve.

 _But I don't think birds, bees or yew trees are about to crack this case for us._

Maybe this book. I can only rely on the pictures, but—

'This is about our race cart from the underground tunnel, Sherlock.' I flip the page and add: 'And here's another depiction of the stars and planets.'

'This observatory was build centuries later, and accommodated the legend of the Mirror of Souls, John. But don't let me distract you. Carry on. You are in a luminous shape today.'

I swat his hand away from the aged paper and turn the next page. And the next. I find no set of instructions. I glance up to the detective. I can see the frustration in his expression, telling me that not even the Latin words convey what to do next.

Clearing my throat, I decide: 'Shall we go up? We can, at least, get a view of the city from the upper floor?'

'The viewing panels are closed, John. The modern telescope sitting up there is facing a blank roof panel.'

'We'll open it, Sherlock.'

He smirks. 'I'm enjoying this new vandalism streak of yours, John.'

Leaving me speechless he finds himself the lead on the narrow circular staircase. I won't be left behind.

There's more daylight on the upper floor, straining in through the dome like ceiling structure. Feels like we're strangers in an impenetrable lost past.

We're the last witnesses of a group of honourable men and women who hid a treasure behind legend and knowledge.

It's with reverence that I brush my fingers over the wooden railing that lines the balcony of the upper floor. Scratched, worn, old. Under too many coats of paint I can still sense the aged wood textures, and its damage over the decades. My fingers mindlessly travel along those untold stories and stop at one set of deliberate scratches in particular. This is not the result of a negligent act or a distasteful graffiti. I can sense there is something else in this circular indentation in the trained wood, just a few millimetres deep, and further texture in the centre.

'North', Sherlock verbalizes for me, and at once I know we are attuned, thinking as one.

'Quick, Sherlock, we must find the other ones.'

We follow different courses on the circular balcony, ending up meeting each other and restarting. We bump into one another, we go over the other's territory, but North is still a one-off as far as we can find it.

'John?' my friend asks me, puzzled. Mirroring all those times I asked him for deductions.

'A good soldier only needs to find his North, and orientates himself through his journey', I comment, slowly. 'This is our journey. Sherlock, that small telescope you brought. The base is a circular disk, right?'

My friend produces the small object and carefully places it in the wood's indentation. It fits snuggly. _North_ , I whisper in my breath. With my callused hands I manipulate the fragile piece in order to rotate the mini telescope on its stand, North-wise. It clanks as it fits into place.

 _And finally the skies part, opening wide._

That is to say, it sets into motion some mechanic contraption that recoils four roof panels from place, opening the observatory to the sky.

'Impressive', Sherlock comments. _It must be a compliment._ The genius is notorious for being hard to please. 'What now, John?'

I smile, looking up. Above us, in the apex of the roof, where the octagonal construction meets, there's a glint of metal.

'Oh', I comment. 'We got it all wrong, Sherlock. It wasn't a treasure at all. The Mirror of—'

I'm brutally interrupted by a muffled, but distinctive, gunshot. Immediately Sherlock and I follow the origin off the sound. Downstairs, the professor's assistant holds the smoking gun (with a silencer at the end). Powerful enough to have us follow its commands.

Sherlock groans, muttering something about stupidity under his breath. I catch on fast. _Dummies, we were!_ We entered the tunnel under the bookshop chasing the killer and as soon as we got out the other end we forgot all about the dangerous man we were chasing. He stayed put, spying on kjr success.

 _Stupid is a kind word, Sherlock._

'The assistant', Sherlock recovers his ground fast. 'Yes, that makes sense. I gather you stayed hidden in here till John and I did most if the hard work, deciding to reveal yourself as soon as one of us declared he knew how to find the last piece of the puzzle.'

The man below smiles tightly, coldly; gun steadily trailed on us.

Sherlock buries his hands in his coat pocket – _too bad he's not carrying a gun in his endless pocket storage_ – and proceeds: 'And I gather the man John shot at, in professor Chandler's office, was a decoy, someone you hired to appear to attack you, so to draw suspicions away from you. He'll talk, you know?'

'He's my brother. He'll hold off till I'm out of the country. Besides, he thinks he's getting a cut of this treasure. Mr Watson, it's your turn now.'

Sherlock grinds his teeth audibly. _He really hates when people don't use my medical title._ As for me, my mind is on the gun instead.

'There's no treasure. We were all wrong', I tell him, honestly.

'Enough with the bluff! The legend has it that the Mirror of Souls is filled with water and in the reflection of the water you can find the last hidden answers.'

I frown in concern. Yes, you're meant to find answers – of the riddle of Life and Death. It's a myth, just a convenient allegory about life and its meaning.

'Stall, John', the detective whispers under his breath. 'Find him something. You're the storyteller.'

I roll my eyes, regardless of the gun. Then I look around, searching for a plan.

 _Yes. Okay._

'Wanna watch?' I ask over my shoulder to the man downstairs. He frowns.

Grimly, he walks up the stairs in a slow deliberate fashion, where his gun leads the way. Finally he goes around the inner balcony and stops at a safe distance.

He stops at South. We're slightly to the East. The small telescope is aimed at North, proudly bearing its height in a show of bravery. The larger, modern telescope, is pointed at some irrelevant lost angle to us.

I place my hand over the small telescope that acted so faithfully as a command to open the roof panels. I narrate: 'Chandler was not only a learned scholar of lost societies, he was also a guardian of one of the last secret groups that settled in Great Britain. Like him, this ancient group, centuries old in fact, privileged knowledge as a way to a more open and fair society. Old words, older deeds, but it rang modern enough to catch the fancy of the professor. He thought it could help guide the future generations to a more prosperous, equalitarian and respectful society, where fame was a product of brains and bravery and not looks and scandals on tabloides. He saw a future that many would say was too idealistic. He wouldn't live long enough to see it materialise, though. He got stabbed the very day he came for help, to Baker Street. Only one person knew where he was going. The same person that arranged the train tickets, knew his path and acted swiftly to keep the old man from reaching us. Something happened, you couldn't coerce him to give you the two keys. Instead of insisting on a dying man, you got wise, you let him go. You allowed him to pass on his message to the ones he trusted. And then you started at once to follow us. You were kept on the loop by Scotland Yard itself, as you appeared to be a helpless victim to the hands of the professor's murderer. You fooled us and followed us here.'

'The treasure, now'; he chewed his words coldly. 'Or I'll shoot your friend there.'

'No', I shake my head, heavily. 'I wouldn't let you.'

With a simple flick of the wrist I push down on the miniature telescope piece. From the centre of the ceiling a small disk-like portion detaches itself and starts a slow descent. The round bowl is supported by four trip wires (a bit smothered in veils of cobwebs) and comes to a standstill halfway on the descent to our level.

'That's it?' The man is just about hysterical it seems. _That's what happens when you pin an entire murderer career on a supposed treasure that no one alive has yet laid eyes on._

I shrug. 'No. That's not it. I know that it's not it, because I wouldn't have it that way.' And with another flick of the wrist I press on the miniature command in my palm.

The Mirror of Souls turns abruptly at a steep angle, its comcave shape facing the killer. At the same time, we start hearing this vibrating sound, as of a long wave radio coming into tune. It hums and reverberates sharper, clearer. The waves sound is repetitive, metallic, as if static shocks inside a metal sphere. The frequency gets tighter, higher. There's a small buzz in the air, electrifying it. Then suddenly it culminates with a single, pure line of energy and light – a laser beam that picks up energy from the sun and shoots across the damp dusky observatory...

Sherlock turns his face away. I drop the commands. The disk falls into a slackened position and the laser disappears. I rush forward to medically access the assistant. His gun is lost on the floor as I reach the man.

I can find a pulse, barely. Sherlock is drawling his bored voice as he – once again – summons an ambulance.

 _ **.**_

'Parabolic disks, Sherlock. Archimedes is reported to have used them to concentrate sunlight and burn the ships attacking the ancient Greek city of Syracuse. Of course that's just an old legend. But as far as legends go, it got useful to us just now.'

Sherlock nods. He's been quietly staring at me for a long while. Uncomfortable, I've taken to filling in on the silence he's left behind, explaining what I can and what Sherlock is sure to have witnessed and deduced anyway.

Finally I grow tired and release a deep breath. We're sat on a garden bench overlooking the river margin.

'Feeling better now?' my friend asks me. I glance at him. He keeps his eyes trailed on a river cruise boat idly floating by.

Looking down on my muddy shoes, I nod. Then, realising maybe Sherlock didn't catch that, I say out loud: 'I did what I could to catch the professor's killer and protect the secret he held dear. But I haven't taken the role of guardian to it. Who knows? Maybe you and I were the last ones to know of it. The professor is dead, and so is the bookshop keeper. Maybe this is an old mystery to be buried with them at last.'

A river seagull grazes us in its low, glutinous flight.

'Maybe Chandler would have wanted it that way. One last witness, one last believer', I whisper.

'And the legend? According to the legend, you could use the disk to converse with the souls of those departed.'

I smile softly. 'Guess we'll never know, Sherlock.'

He hums, just before patting his bulky coat. Still he won't look me in the eye. I splutter: 'You wouldn't have!'

He shrugs. 'If you say so, John', he agrees, only too meekly.

I giggle at that. _What else am I to do?_

 _ **.**_


	91. Chapter 91

_A/N: To Noah – it can't always be a Chandler. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

There had always been reporters buzzing around 221B Baker Street, at the end of Sherlock's most high profile, successful case resolutions. They would swarm around our home, incoming in identifiable media vans, two or three new members at a time on each van – one to hold the camera, one to hold the microphone, and one to edit the gibberish reports they could mash up from incomplete eye witness reports and long distance lenses.

At first they unnerved Sherlock. Not that the man himself doesn't have a less-than-secret vain streak to his personality. And he is photogenic enough, and he believes in voicing rationality as the lost panacea to all the world's troubles, so a good part of him revelled in the well deserved success the media coverage unveiled. Maybe his first experiences with the media didn't quite live up to expectation, though. "The hat detective solves another one" and "crime fighting duo sweeps the city" were not the right publicity for his blog, after all. They did little to uphold facts, defend a line of rational thought, or benefit humanity at large. It didn't help that our unexpected fame – well, at least I didn't see it coming, but I was happy for Sherlock as he got praised and known around London for the good and heroic things he did, and the incredible gifts of his mind – was soon to backstab us in a very devious way. Moriarty was not the first criminal attracted to the intriguing hero in a quest for justice. The first nut cases who targeted us were far less convoluted or exciting. Some wanted to impress Sherlock by means of grand theft or bombing skills. Anything to get that attention. Validity by proxy, I suppose. "Look at me, Sherlock Holmes, come and get me!" Others fancied themselves as precious and unique and so taunted the Scotland Yard with precise instructions that the hat detective should be contacted to chase them.

Some just cut right through the chase and, intimidated or trying to make a point, would target us directly, or 221B. There were bombs, arsons, poisonous darts from across the street – the lot.

Sherlock's fame made him a household name, but also a target.

I was the one presenting the reclusive genius to the world. I was the ultimate one responsible for placing him in danger.

 _Oh, Sherlock._

I vowed to protect him at all costs. I owed him that much, and a lot more.

My blog page was covered with a comprehensive portrait of Sherlock Holmes. Sometimes I'd edit out the details of a client, or a crime scene location, and on occasion I changed the dates to make the case untraceable in the public sphere. But I never held back about Sherlock's incredible brilliancy. Somehow it felt that it would have been to do my great friend a terrible disservice.

I was responsible for his image, at a time when we both shared 221B, and we were happy, solving crimes together. It felt it my moral duty to report things with a fair amount of accuracy, and only deviated from it when there was an absolute need to protect a client's identity, or to honour a lost life by trimming the facts that led to that loss.

I was, therefore, dumbfounded as Sherlock stormed in the clinic as a young anaemic mother of three was walking away. My last patient too, thus making Sherlock's time very good indeed.

'Sherlock, what are you doing here?' I ask, surprised. A case, a boredom fit, another request to assure Mycroft Holmes that a liver can regenerate itself in months so Sherlock ever really lost at Operation, the board game – are all fair options as far as I am concerned.

'You should ask that to the publisher, John.'

'Wait, what?'

'The adventure stories of a detective Mölsh, by Noah J. Towns.' He drops a heavy book on my metal desk, that reverberates under the sudden strain, much like an ominous thunder across the small surgery office.

'Hmm...' I start, at a loss. The book is thick, and the cover is glossy, full of blacks, reds and golds. 'The Case of the Missing Red Wire', I read aloud, trying hard to make sense of it all.

'Well, then?' Sherlock prompts me to talk.

'I don't get it. It looks like it's a murder-mystery story, what about it? You must know that publishers work with several writers, and I only worked with the one publisher who compiled my blog entries into a book. I got you a copy for Christmas too, after you destroyed the first by spilling concentrated sulphuric acid on it.'

Sherlock leans over the desk between us, wrists firmly planted over my paperwork and keyboard alike (the computer whirres continuously in protest) as a slight tremor of contained anger animates his lean frame. He just about growls at me:

'That book is our case, detailed as a story.'

I blink. 'You read murder-mysteries?'

'Mrs Hudson read it. She recognised us in those pages and handed me the book.'

I smirk. 'Has it got a handsome army doctor the ladies fall in love with in there, then?'

'No. It's got in it a chubby, short, grumpy veteran, who now plays GP out of selflessness and a plebeian fear of missing out on the gas bills.'

'Oh.' I lose my smirk in no time. 'Not very glamorous, huh?'

'John, focus! Only the two of us knew the particulars of that case. We were the only ones to work it. Even Lestrade got there too late, and by that time he was only there to pick up the pieces.'

'In fairness, there were a lot of pieces left for Scotland Yard, and there could have been many more. We missed being blown up to smithereens by seconds...'

Sherlock's steel grey eyes narrow. 'I didn't tell you which case the book is about, John.'

 _Damn._ I try my best at keeping a steady, innocent look upon my features, but I can feel that I am straining now.

'You were the source, John', Sherlock accuses me, point blank. 'You told this Noah Towns our case because you and I – and the whole of Scotland Yard – were bound by secrecy. You rattled it all to this man, who shamelessly created a fictitious detective Mölsh to pull off the heroic deeds.'

I break away from his searing eye contact. 'I guess...' I mutter, under my breath. 'It was all done with, it wasn't going to hurt anyone anymore, if the story got out there, in the world. In fact, it was the safest thing to do. They were a dangerous criminal association with a leader on the rise, a precursor of another Moriarty-style ring. I had to do anything in my power to expose them... They say the pen is mightier than the sword, don't they?'

Sherlock is obviously furious, fuming as I rarely ever got a chance to see. Usually the imperturbable type, there's always this dangerous quality to his exceptional fury.

'Hear this, John!' He grabs the book from between us and opens it straight onto his desired page, leading me to wonder if he has checked that page so often that the book's binding got overly flexed, and the book now naturally opens on that particular page. In Sherlock's correct baritone's voice, the text is read aloud:

 _«Detective Mölsh ran effortlessly through the disused factory, his athletic steps pounding on the concrete floor and echoing on the metal beams and rivets around us. Army soldier Anthony Snow followed in faithful footsteps, grasping tight the gun in his hand, as a reminder of his silent promise to keep the brilliant Mölsh safe, a promise Snow was ready to keep with his life.»_

I blink. 'A bit on the overly dramatic side, I guess. I don't suppose it would put Mrs Hudson off, though.'

Sherlock lowers himself a couple of inches further over the desk, perfectly levelling his dangerous gaze to my eyes, seeing that I never got up from my office chair.

'Need some more refreshing of that old funny memory of yours? _«Panting for breath in the darkened broom cupboard, Mölsh and Snow warily eye the surprise left for them by the syndicate. A two kilo C4 explosive pack, wired to an activated timer, on a countdown. A bomb that would not only erase their presence in the room as it would disintegrate a great part of the factory where, faintly audible through at a distance, sewing machines were being operated by forced labourers, kept against their will at a dingy basement, under illegal contracts that hardly rewarded their work and that allowed the bosses to feed the market with cheap fakes of branded products. Dozens of lives were at stake, and not only the ones of Snow and Mölsh.»'_

'Wow', I comment, carefully, almost superstitiously. 'I remember that very well. It's creepy how close to our case that story sounds. And if you hadn't tried to diffuse the bomb, we wouldn't be here right now.'

Sherlock blinks, and for once he tones down a bit. 'It wasn't easy. There was a missing wire.'

'The red wire. It wasn't exposed and we couldn't cut it', I agree.

'Shall I read you the rest?'

I stay silent, apprehensive.

Sherlock goes on reading aloud, hardly looking down on the white pages and black letters, as if he knew them by heart with that eidetic memory of his.

 _«Detective Mölsh's face has the pallor of a death mask as he takes in the meaning of the missing red wire. This is a case he can't solve. Indeed, this is likely to be his last case. The gravity of his predicament leaves him reeling, and for once, in his overly confident professional career and persona, Mölsh can't find an answer to a riddle. To the riddle of Death.»_

'A bit prosaic', I comment, fidgeting in my chair.

 _«Until suddenly, with a clarity such as only the most brilliant mind of the century could have, Mölsh realises there's one last way out. One last shot at Life – and he isn't about to let it go to waste.»_

'The hero will always find a way out', I comment.

 _«Mölsh contorts himself to break the fire alarm seal on the wall, in a desperate attempt to evacuate the building as much as possible in any case. Immediately he grabs the explosive device and with strength and precision alike he chucks it away from them, to fall on the old waste shaft at the corner of the small cupboard, where old trash bags would have been routinely discarded to some skip in the lower levels. He then shoves himself over his army soldier partner to shelter him from the magnificent blast to come. They hit the floor painfully, gasping for breath, recoiling as they both know of the imminent powerful blast that will rock the factory walls. Seconds tick by and nothing happens. Snow dares to raise his head from the dirty floor. Mölsh forcibly pushes him down at once. The solder yelps in outraged pain. Time stretches and they keep to their positions, flat on the floor, until it's evident that there won't be a blast after all. Mölsh gets up first; careful, eyeing the trash conduct with suspicion._

 _«What's that in your hand?_

 _«Mölsh looks down. There, on his hand, intertwined on the chain of his wristwatch, is a section of electrical red wire. Detached from the bomb as he threw the apparatus down the shaft. He had disarmed it, after all, by sheer luck._

 _«I had everything under control, Noah._

 _«The detective smiles victoriously, taking easy credit for the day's serendipity.»_

I clear my throat, awkwardly. 'Yeah, that's pretty much how it happened. And you didn't let me blog about it. Not mentioning the secrecy you don't always keep to, you said it wasn't worth it. Not enough deductive brilliancy or something like that. Your deductions were great, or we'd never have found that factory and exposed that criminal syndicate, Sherlock.'

'Logic had it that the bomb would go off. We got spared by sheer luck. This _detective Mölsh_ will be the laughing stock of all London! Who would want to read such a satire?'

I squint at my frazzled friend. 'Err, Sherlock? That's the third edition right there in your hand. It says so on the cover. I don't think people are laughing at you or me.'

My friend turns the book impulsively to check the facts. He then blinks. 'Fine. You're buying, John.'

I smile. 'Buying what?'

'The pints or ales, or whatever one drinks at a pub. I believe Snow has a predilection for pubs and Mölsh will, on occasion, indulge in accompanying him. We can't have lies like that on your book, John.'

'My book?'

'Just drop it, John. I know it all. Did you think I would miss the clues?'

'Clues?'

'The anagrams. Detective Mölsh, or Moelsh, for detective Holmes. Army soldier A. T. Snow for Watson.'

'Yeah, well, Towns knows we were bound by secrecy so he changed our names.'

'And Noah J. Towns for John Watson', Sherlock finishes, victoriously. 'I can't believe you didn't simply call your army character Hamish and the detective William. Would have saved you a lot of trouble. How long did you have to play with our real names to get those anagrams?'

'A lot', I answer sheepishly, grabbing my jacket. 'Oh, and I heard Mölsh always picks up the tab at the pub, you know?'

'I don't think so.'

'Oh, I'd keep that in mind, or Mölsh might get himself a love interest in the next book', I warn.

'You wouldn't dare', he growls.

I snort at that. 'I have poetic liberty, Sherlock, and I'm not afraid to use it.'

He chuckles, under his breath, as we head off.

 _ **.**_


	92. Chapter 92

_A/N: Sometimes I'm too much the idealist. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

' _I missed you.'_

Sherlock is not one to blurt things out; and even if he were, I wouldn't expect him to go out of his habit of self-restraint for something this emotionally charged.

 _I missed you._

I let his trembling words ring in my ears with a wave of nostalgia. I see what he means. _I missed him too._ Out there never felt as homely as Baker Street, and never have I felt as _complete_ as with my best friend by my side.

I've felt alone even when surrounded by crowds of people, whether strangers or acquaintances.

I've felt hollow and drained as they yapped on and on about petty things that I couldn't care less about. So self-centred, so narrow minded, that there were times I wondered if they were real. When have all the people in the world been substituted by boring, predictable robots? Artificial intelligence without purpose, just a bunch of bots going on about their lives, getting married, moving jobs, buying more expensive cars, snapping pictures on holidays, procreating and eating and sleeping?

I missed Sherlock so much. The man, the hero, the companion, the steadiness of the unexpected.

I missed him like I missed a part of me, that I required to make sense of the world.

Greg was there, welcoming me to any pub, but his football stats had become tiresome a while back.

Mrs Hudson was so understanding over several cuppas, but she had never shared the thrill of the chase and the simply joy of doing good, from the back alleys of London to every single disused space where criminals found a new lair.

Molly wouldn't have said No, but talking to Molly was admitting that Sherlock, who had laid on one of her stainless steel slabs, was gone forever; and I couldn't do that. Not yet. Maybe never.

With a vicious and rebellious energy I throw back the bedding and swing my legs over the side of the bed, exposing myself to the cold that permeates the walls of my old room at Baker Street.

 _It was just a dream._

Sherlock is gone to the world and no one minded the fireplace downstairs (or insisted on turning on the heating, for that matter). In fact, I much rather it like this, on second thought. It's more honest, and grim; more truthful to a world without the consulting detective. Cold, miserable, empty of meaning.

I sigh and lower my face to my hands. Hiding myself from the world. Adjourning that moment when I'll be strong again, bear those feelings and move along, as mechanically as everyone else. Pretend to be a robot just like them. Fit in. Be patted on the back for my bravery, for mourning so little time and being able to carry on with a strong face. Inside is but a carefully disguised lie. Some lost streak of pride edging me forward, prompting me to keep a strong appearance to the world beyond my cold hand; and carry it beyond these bleak walls, even as I already falter and crumble.

' _John?'_

The voice that cuts the silence in the flat is incisive, curious and worried all at once. I start; a fresh multitude of layered emotions revealing themselves too fast for me to properly absorb them. Recognition, relief, _recollection._

 _Sherlock is not dead. He came back._

 _You know this, John!_

Sometimes I still forget.

I groan and push past the mild nausea that settles in my stomach now. _Of course_ Sherlock is alive. Why does my faulty memory still bury him six feet under – every now and then – and still demands that I mourn a loss that will never be done with?

Soft knocks on my bedroom door. In an instant I feel trapped. _He's bound to find out._

I desperately scrub any signs of my previous torment from my face, square my shoulders, clear my throat.

'I'll be down in a minute!' I announce. Or negotiate, or eagerly promise; I'm not sure anymore.

A moment's pause and the quiet answer: 'Yes, John.'

I sniffle and scrub my face some more, before it dawns on me that I did not hear Sherlock's footsteps receding.

A cold, ominous presage grips my stomach, tying it to a knot. _No._ What if I imagined him just now?

The flat is silent, it's cold. Too quiet. What if my damaged mind couldn't cope with the loss anymore? What if he never really returned and I'm just out of my mind with grief?

All alone in a senseless world.

I get up in a desperate impulse to confront reality, my bare feet against the aged and textured floorboards, yank open the bedroom door and—

Collide against the tall figure of Sherlock Holmes. Alive. Breathing. Quite solid if we're to go with the bump on my forehead when I hit his skinny collarbone or shoulder.

'Sherlock!' I recognise, indignant, as is my default mode when it comes to my mad friend.

He acts like I haven't said a word, much less named him. His gaze is so intent as he analyses me that it feels somewhat hypnotic, and I yield to it with relief, for it gives me time to collect myself.

 _He's alive. Sherlock came back._ That settles it.

 _Never forgetting it again._

 _Keep calm. Carry on. You can breathe again._

Sherlock tilts his head as he sees my sharp intake of breath.

'Just drop it, John', he tells me. Softly, warmly.

'Drop what?' I ask, that cold grip returning like a tight vice around my lungs.

He turns to leave.

'The act. You're not fooling anyone, John.'

'What do you mean?' I deflect, instantly angered. Blood rushes in my veins, and I take a deep breath. _Annoying, therefore Alive._

He answers my question with a literal approach:

'I missed you too.'

 _I missed you, John._

I watch him lead down the stairs to the landing, from where the welcoming fragrance of tea and warmth of a lit fireplace effuse upwards.

How in the world did he know _that_?

I realise it doesn't quite matter. I'll leave the deductions to the great Sherlock Holmes, and just appreciate a world that is once again a warm and meaningful place, with my good friend in it.

 _ **.**_


	93. Chapter 93

_A/N: Want to guess what old classic I've been reading? I'm afraid, in writing, what you take in always affects what you put out. So I decided to accept that and flow with it this time. The result is silly, but I enjoyed it tremendously. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

'Hmm... Strawberry', Sherlock comments as he walks in on 221B after another late night, sniffing the air like he enjoys doing at crime scenes. He's always ready to defend the olfactory sense as an important investigative tool. Under some circumstances, the rest of us would rather pass.

I take a good look at my friend. He looks exceedingly pale, but keeps energised in his usual wiry sort of strength. His eyes are a bit sunken and appear to shine darker, hypnotising me with ease as we cross gazes.

Lately, I've taken to looking at the floor, my hands, or the kettle instead; anything but that harrowing gaze, full of intensity and thirst for life, mellowed by a quiet despondency, as if the owner was on the brink of losing his most precious hopes, guarding them secretively, but he still carried out his life fully, out of some sense of duty, morality, or searching for the comforting undertones of routine.

Again, I'm the first to break eye contact. 'Strawberries, you say? We don't have any. We have apples, though, will that do?'

Irked, he demands: 'No apples! "An apple a day keeps the doctor away". We must rid ourselves of that terrible fruit!'

I shrug, as a voiceless comment to my mad friend's antics, take an apple and bite into it myself. Its juicy and crunchy sound fills the flat's silence, as is quietly reproached by the posh detective that eyes the apple with intensity. He even appears to shudder. He really must have had a bad experience with apples. He's such a picky eater! That's another item to add to the list of foods he won't bear now. Last week it was garlic. He threw away a perfectly sound pasta dish I made just because it had garlic in it. He then threw open all the windows, notwithstanding the snow falling outside, and positively snarled at me as I complained about it. Not even as an hour later he was knocking on my bedroom door to apologise, carrying a peace offer of a bloody rare steak from the Michelin starred restaurant down the street.

I'd worry my ever pale friend was getting anaemic, but he seems to consume enough iron in his diet. _I'll keep an eye out just in any case._ I'm a doctor, I wouldn't forgive myself if he fell ill on my watch.

Sherlock comes over to the kitchen, where I've been quietly sat at the table, typing on my blog. He insinuates himself near the kettle and with a puppy hope and sweet round eyes he conveys a silent request. I give in and get up to make him a cuppa. He smiles triumphantly as he whirls away. _Hey, I saw that! Next cuppa is on you, mate!_

I busy myself making him his beloved cup of tea, and a toast just for the sake of his food intake.

'Strawberry?' I start again.

'Yes. That shower gel I got you for your birthday, John.'

That was a strange gift if I ever saw one, and it wasn't my birthday at all.

'The bottle I dropped and it splattered all over the shower cabin, making it look like a crime scene?' I joke.

I could swear I hear Sherlock gulp. I turn around to look at him, and find him leaning over my laptop, reading the contents of the page and editing them by typing on the keyboard with stealth. 'Oi!' I protest. 'Stop adjectivating your own brilliancy, Sherlock, people will believe I wrote that!'

He shrugs, not bothered at all; without a glance he reaches out, grabs the mug from my hands and sips the tea quietly, humming to himself as the liquid warms him. Lately, Sherlock is always cold to the touch, in the rare instances our hands brush past each other. I've told him; a jumper would actually do him some good, and he can borrow one of mine anytime.

Still leaning over the laptop, Sherlock insists on various other corrections. Some more faithful to the facts, others subject to misinterpretation, and others yet that I'd warrant that are Sherlock's own fabrications (such as identifying the colour of a rose petal by the type and shape of the pollen produced).

Fine! Now I need a cuppa too... I busy myself preparing the soothing tea, fuming and muttering under my breath. In keeping with my subtle deception of not caring about Sherlock's alterations, I stealthily move the metallic kettle a couple of inches to side, to spy on my friend over the chromed surface's reflection. It doesn't seem to work. Must be strangely fogged up by condensation. I glance over my shoulder instead – good grief! Sherlock is trying different filters over the hat picture now! – and back towards the kettle. I'm puzzled by the strange condensation phenomena. It's as if Sherlock has no reflection at all!

Alternating the odd combination of warm tea and cold apple, I decide once again to forgive the eccentric genius, and I come to stand by his side, surveying the so-called improvements to my narrative. The git is a natural writer (when he's not exhaustingly listing flower show's winning rose varieties on the South East of England for the past decade), and he's even managed to incorporate a couple of valid compliments to me here and there, not accepting of the modesty that a writer should possess when detailing himself and his actions. My eyes fly over the web page as Sherlock leans back to stand fully straight. It doesn't take long before he's studying my reaction, as if the great detective could be just a touch insecure at times.

'I like it, Sherlock', I start at last, and I mean it. He smiles softly, before embracing back all his frenetic energy, springing to action, doing I don't know what.

'Sherlock, shouldn't you rest? You've been up all night, it's almost dawn and you haven't slept a wink.'

'Don't be a nag. Nag, nag, nag. Just drop it, John. You know I need less sleep and nourishment than the rest of you!'

He shrugs off my concern. I sigh. Lately Sherlock Holmes has become a creature of the night. Up at all odd hours, either prowling the city or adding to that gigantic contraption he's been creating in the living room – the one that looks like a monument to some steam-engine Victorian empire era, that huffs and puffs every hour on the dot; but has so many intricate levers, cogs, buttons, and pipes with turn and retorts that it must surely be up to no good. And because the machinery is ever so secret, we don't pull open the window curtains anymore. The living room is perpetually bathed in a duskiness only animated by a few soft lamps and the trembling glow of the fireplace's embers that cast eerie shadows all around.

This time, however, I've braved through and opened the curtains as Sherlock was out. The machine is enveloped in the soft glow of the morning's first rosy tones.

'And when are you going to clear the living room, Sherlock? We share the rent, it's my living room too!'

He expressively rolls his eyes at me, and my nagging – his usual choice of word, not mine.

This is was I get for caring about a git flatmate that offers me strawberry shower gel for my birthday...

I bang my mug down on the kitchen counter, a bit too forcefully. I was upset and the shock cracked the mug on impact. I groan and watch the spoils of my favourite mug in fractured pieces of porcelain, shard-like and sharp-edged.

I only realise I'm bleeding as Sherlock takes my hand with the utmost reverence and raises it above heart level, wrapping it in a tea towel. The slight trickle of blood that flows down my wrist and becomes visible causes my friend to have a sharp intake of breath.

'It's alright, Sherlock. Hand injuries always bleed more. Lots of capillaries under the skin... Really, Sherlock, it's not that serious, will you stop staring at me as if I'm about to die?' I finish, indignant. That seems to snap him out of that strange reverie. Still he makes me take a seat by the kitchen table and promises not to take long in fetching the first aid kit.

That's a nice change; me being the patient and someone else the doctor.

'If you take any longer, Sherlock, we'll be watching the sunrise together!' I comment, for fun, after my absent friend. The crystalline cold morning is arriving through the dark night outside the living room windows. It dawns already. 'Sherlock?'

There's an indistinct, apologetic mumble from the bathroom where the detective seems to have taken refuge. _Oh, what has he done now?_ The sweet irony that my idiot flatmate might have injured himself while retrieving the first aid kit...

I sigh and walk on over. 'Sherlock?' I call. No answer. 'Sherlock, I'm coming in.'

The bathroom is a small narrow space of an adapted Victorian building. There's a small window at the back, the toilet and washbasin to the side of it, and the shower cabin on the other side. I find the familiar space in disarray. There are towels strewn on the floor and the linen cabinet, tall and narrow, now fits a curled up genius hunching under a dark blue bath towel.

'Hey! That one is mine', I protest. 'Go play hide and seek with your own towels...' Then I stop short, upon noticing the genuinely frightened look on Sherlock's face. He looks like a lost child, bright blue eyes wide in terror. I kneel beside him at once. 'What is it, Sherlock? What's wrong?'

'You've distracted me', he accuses.

'Right', I play along. _I don't get it._

'It's morning already, John! I can't have morning light hit my skin, it burns!'

'What?' I'm confused beyond measure.

'I've recently become a vampire, John!' he explains in a hiss.

'Oh...' I blink. That accounts for the anaemic look. 'Hmm', I look around, helpless. 'Don't you have – I don't know – a good sunscreen cream and a dark pair of shades?' He stares at me in anger and disbelief. I try to appease: 'Hang in there! I'll go put a thick towel over the window pane so you can come out, Sherlock, but you've got to promise to explain it all to me.' He nods, full of faith.

I bandage my hand with another towel, so not to taunt Sherlock with the scent of my fresh blood, and go cover all the windows in the flat for Sherlock's safety sake.

 _There_ , any client will either assume that we're both vampires (as if anyone would believe that!) or they'll turn away thinking we're on holidays.

'Sherlock?' I call my friend as I walk back across the flat.

'In here, John', his dark, steady voice answers me, bringing out goose bumps on my skin. He seems recuperated; good.

'You've got some explaining to do, mister', I warn him he won't get away from it.

He nods and instead of pulling up a chair in the kitchen, he yanks the table away (my laptop almost flying off the surface) with superhuman strength he won't need to conceal anymore, revealing the two mismatched chairs to us. He takes the nearest with a certain softness and invites me to the other.

'That horrid case Mycroft got me last week, when I travelled to the Black Forest and beyond; remember that, John?'

I nod. He wouldn't let me join him in his investigations (for what I assumed was under direct instructions of the British diplomacy), and he was gone from Baker Street for a week.

'I got bitten by a strange creature, with all the appearance of a wolf, but much more cunning.' Sherlock unwraps his scarf and shows me a reddish scar on his neck, still a bit inflamed, close to his jugular. I internally cringe; what a close call.

'You didn't tell me about it.'

'You would have been worried and told me off for not being careful, John. Completely useless after the fact.'

I must recognise the truth in his predictions. Sherlock continues his narrative: 'First, I became rather lethargic and melancholic. My energy only seemed to get revived at night time. Finally my strengths redoubled and my intellect became even sharper. I solved Mycroft's case in no time; and a few more cases I found along the way.'

'So, you're a vampire now?'

'Yeah', he acknowledges with simplicity. 'Can't go into churches – or any temple of faith for that matter, can't stand Angelo's pesto (and the man is desolate), the direct sunlight wounds me, and I'm fighting the urge to suck your blood and everyone else's in town. Yours, mostly. I bet there's an underlying taste of tea in it.'

I smirk to that.

'You're not scared', he notices with awe. 'John Watson, you heard that I'm now a vampire and you haven't gone running out the door to the safety of daylight outside?'

I shrug. 'Nobody's perfect, Sherlock. So what? We can sneak into Bart's tonight, where you can gorge on the blood of the freshest corpses. You need to put on some weight. And given that you can't go anywhere all day long, you can take a nap for a couple of hours, get some colour back on your cheeks...'

'John?' he reminds me. 'It's not a look. I'm one of the undead now?'

'And I'll make sure you take better care of yourself now than you ever did before... By the way, what's the giant machine in the living room for?'

'Oh, _that_!' he seems surprised. 'It's a wall clock. I was bored.'

'Let's get you a case, then. I'll call Lestrade, see what he can get us.'

'Thanks, John... And... Would you make me another cup of tea?'

'Do vampires like tea?'

'I do'; he shrugs like it is all that matters. 'Tea, John?' he demands, petulant again. 'Or I'll drink you instead!'

'Don't rush me!' I tell him off.

'I'll bite you', he warns darkly.

'Yeah, right!' I laugh. He smiles happily at our usual banter.

My friend is a vampire; so what?

 _ **.**_

* * *

 _2_ _nd_ _A/N: Yes, I've read Dracula. Maybe I'll keep going a while longer, always with the classic as a basis, I'm not familiar with the more modern tales. Not sure yet. -csf_


	94. Chapter 94

_A/N: Yes, well, I expanded on that last one. I don't know why I enjoy the unrealistic ones so much (like turning Sherlock and John into vampires, or cats, or kids), but I have a lot of respect for such a great set of characters I didn't create, who can withstand so many versions of themselves and still remain intrinsically faithful to our image of them. If I can give you a vampire Sherlock Holmes, and you can take John Watson's word for it, then I did my job well. We'll see. Thanks. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.Vampire Sherlock - part two.**_

'So... Vampires exist?' I start, astonished.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'You can see me, right? I exist, I can assure you of that much.'

'You have – what? – been bitten by a vampire?'

He recoils at the thought. The over scrupulous detective is not too shy to sniff a corpse at a crime scene, but he won't let someone come so intimately close, to bite him on his neck.

'What? No! Of course not. I wouldn't let a vampire come bite me, that's just weird... I didn't want to tell you because you'd be mad at me, but I entered a secret laboratorial facility in Central Europe where a powerful vampire has been held for a number of years now. They were studying him for a possible army enhancement weapon, the usual. I sneaked in, anaesthetised him, extracted a sample of his saliva and a pint of blood for testing, and then, in the most rigorous scientific conditions – literally, for I was still in the labs, if in a broom cupboard – I injected the poison of the undead in me. I have been recording all the changes. I've got a chart and all.'

'You said you were bitten by a wolf-like creature, on your neck! You have a scar!'

'That was later on. Unrelated events. I thought it was a dog, wanting to sniff me. My bad. I love dogs.' He seems as phlegmatic as ever, throughout his speech.

I'm the overexerted one. 'Hang on! You infiltrated a secret laboratory to extract vampire blood?'

'Not only that. For precaution I got the vampire smuggled out. I shipped him back in a crate. I've got him in a nice roomy broom cupboard at Bart's basement, should I need him again.'

I squint. 'Like, to kill him, and set free the curse you've put on yourself, you idiot?'

Sherlock looks unimpressed by my reaction. 'No need to be mean spirited, John! I've got more poison, I extracted enough for you too, should you want some.'

I get a bit suspicious of that. If the git was to share, he'd done it without my permission, stabbing me with a needle full during my sleep.

Sherlock insists: 'It's preserved with EDTA, clearly labelled and stored in a glass vial. All scientific and strictly sanitary, John. Do you want to join me?'

I groan; _he's_ _being serious. God help me._

Sherlock describes: 'Superhuman strength, incredible speed, and I've been getting plenty of looks – so I assume it increases your attractiveness. You value such mundane things and it could give you the precious advantage you so desperately need in dating, John.'

'Sherlock, you always get looks, everywhere you go', I say, flatly.

'Do I?' He looks genuinely surprised, as if he was oblivious.

Except when he wants to manipulate witnesses or criminals, then _innocent_ is non-applicable to Sherlock Holmes.

'Sherlock, one of us should remain human, just to be on the safe side.'

'Oh, the control test! Right, I suppose that's better', he ponders.

I sigh in relief. The prospect of being undead terrifies me. Although, at Sherlock's side, it'd be quite the wondrous adventure... 'Don't get rid of that vial just yet, though.'

My vampire friend smirks. He knows he's got my curiosity spiked now.

'So you're doing all this for science?'

'Well, someone had to. No one else ever went so in-depth with the research before. Most investigators went at it without any objectivity, siding with the common humans and despising the vampires.'

'Are there many vampires?' I ask.

'I don't know. Some of us live in packs, like wolves, but most of us are solitary. You can't really expect to hunt humans for their blood if you're sharing your vampire status on social media.'

'I don't know about that, it takes all kinds... But, Sherlock, have you ever stopped to ponder the consequences before doing this? Where will you sleep? Do you need, I don't know, a coffin?'

'Got one. Mail ordered it already. You _will_ help me assemble it, John? The instructions suggest two persons and a screwdriver with a start tip.'

'Sure! Piece of cake. So, when did it happen? How long have you been a vampire?'

'Last night. Six hours, give or take.'

'But... you've been pale and cold all week long!'

'It took me a week to transform, it happens at the full moon, John. There's no way of hurrying the moon cycle, John.' He sips his tea, lukewarm by now, and frowns on it. 'And I'm always pale. No one will tell the difference.'

'They will, when you start going mental over the scent of blood at the next crime scene. Have you _really_ thought this through?'

He looks fleetingly caught, but recovers fast.

'When we arrive at crime scenes, most times the victim is long dead and most unpalatable. I'll just clamp a peg over my nose if the death is recent. You are such a worrier, John! Do you really think I can't control my impulses?'

I shake my head, furious. He's adamant of his ways and won't take notice of my advice. All I can do is to keep close, and protect my friend from he consequences of his own actions.

I don't expect it to be easy.

 _ **.**_

'Lab rats? This is a scientific experiment, after all, John.'

I shake my head, adamant. 'No animal testing, Sherlock. That was one of the ground rules we agreed on.'

'Fine! They are so small anyway, they'd be like endless appetisers... By the way, what happens to that rule when I use you as my guinea pig, John?'

He's just trying to mess with now. _I hope._

'Never mind', he deflects, 'all good rules must have exceptions... Blood banks?'

'As a doctor I can't condone it. That donated blood saves lives.'

He accepts my stance with reticence, muttering something about me telling him he needs to put on some weight. 'The vegetarian option being a diet of pickled beetroot, red beans and strawberry jam, I suppose', he grumps. We both chuckle at that.

'We will find a way of not starving you, Sherlock. If you really don't want to bite people—'

'You won't let me suck them dry; something about even criminals having souls...'

'—and you agreed with me, then we will have to, you know, learn to manage your condition in some unconventional manner. For instance, I could donate blood regularly.'

He eyes me in disbelief. 'You'd let me bite you?'

'I was thinking of a more controlled environment. Molly could draw out some of my blood every week at Bart's, and I'd bring it over to you. How much do you require for sustenance?'

He presses his lips thin. 'More than you can provide weekly, John.'

'Oh, so that won't do.'

'Let's not be rash!' he holds out a hand to get my full attention. 'What is your blood type?'

I don't know what difference that makes, but I answer anyway: 'O neg.'

'The one who provides to all; how charmingly coherent with your personality, John.' Then he licks his lips. 'Delicious.'

'Sherlock!' I warn him.

'Sorry, John, won't happen again', he promises with an appeasing gesture. 'I'd not bite you. I promised you that already. I was just daydreaming.'

I give him a heavy stare.

 _ **.**_

'John, we need to go!' Sherlock declares with urgency, he's already putting on his long coat. _I bet he's going to flip over that collar too._

'We're not moving to Whitby. I like it here', I start at once. I don't care what his vampire instincts tell him to do, I like London best.

He blinks. 'Oh, please!' he finally gets it. 'Stoker probably made that up! Why would Dracula want to go to Whitby anyway?'

I focus hard on my naïve friend. 'Because no one would have guessed it, that's why. Because it's not credible at first glance. Because he'd have plenty of ...sheep... to maul and drink their blood, and the occasional shipwreck.'

'I'm a vampire now, John. Do be serious.'

I sigh. 'Where did you want to go, Sherlock?'

'Where I always want to go, John! Crime scene! Lestrade has summoned us, the Yard is being customarily flummoxed over a new serial killer on the loose.'

I grab my friend by the arm to hold him back. 'You're sure the victims are quite _dead_? You know, _undrinkable_?'

He smirks, and reports quietly: 'Quite sure, John. Only skeleton remains now. They represent no temptation for me whatsoever. The remains have been conveniently dumped on a cemetery twenty minutes away for our inspection.'

'Are you _okay_ with cemeteries?' I still won't let go. He nods. 'But won't there be crosses and churches nearby?'

He shrugs. 'I won't be able to go inside the church, according to traditional folklore; not while this lasts. But I trust the serial killer has not been hiding himself in a church for the last – oh, say – three decades?'

'Okay, fair point. But you need to tell me if you feel queasy or faint.'

He nods, responsibly, if only to make sure I let go of his sleeve. Impatiently he waits for me to put on my jacket and soon he's hailing a cab to get us to the cemetery.

The drive is slow, as London seems to be particularly full of traffic today. Sherlock is absent-minded, looking at maps and archive documents on his phone. I take the chance to study my friend. He's pale; much paler than of late. His clean shaven jaw looks even more angular and new dark patches under his blue eyes give him a slight gaunt look. As his doctor, I'm sure he's getting enough iron and I keep track of his nutrition. But not all the healthy diets in the world can compensate what his soul is earning for. He's starved of real, fresh, warm life blood. The high standards my friend upholds for himself during the wake hours must taunt him when he needs repose the most. Sherlock will not take the easy way out. He will not bite me, or some stranger off the street. It's an addiction that he's fighting; and not an easy one either, for all of us, who wish to protect him and keep him from harm, are the blood bags that could quench tat elemental thirst awoken inside him. And that he won't give in is the most generous proof of friendship, and proof of a great person that should serve as an example to us all, but for fear of persecution his acts of general abstinence must forever remain silent.

'Thanks, Sherlock', I murmur.

He hums, and nothing more. As if he knew I had been studying him all along, and what for.

 _ **.**_

'DI Lestrade', Sherlock starts, polite and charmingly. He knows well how to insinuate himself when he wants to obtain something.

'There you are, Sherlock!' The inspector turns and then hesitates. 'Are you alright? You don't look too good.'

Sherlock rolls his eyes, generally unaffected. 'A short attention span will not help you solve your cases, Lestrade. Focus! Where are the goodies?'

' _Goodies?'_

'You know what I mean; the victim's remains!'

'Talking like that I'm amazed you didn't end up in jail or an asylum long before I met you, Sherlock...' Our old friend reproaches the socially awkward detective for sobriety's sake. 'They're over there and I'll take you both to them. Just try not to look so cheerful, will ya?'

'Why not?'

I elbow Sherlock, he knows well enough why not. Now he's a blood sucking vampire he seems determined to cut away all ties with social conventions.

'Come along!' Greg hurries us up, perhaps not to give chance for any of the investigators to overhear the consulting detective.

Sherlock stops short, abruptly. I almost crash into him, following closely on his footsteps. 'What – what is it?'

I look around and realise the remains have been gathered for evidence finding, tagging, and bagging at the barely lit porch of a small construction, only one storey high, and not more than two rooms inside.

'Come on, Sherlock! It's not a church!' I hiss under my breath, hoping Greg won't hear us.

'Granted, it's not _now_ , but it must have been part of a chapel, or maybe they held wakes here. You know, where one would customarily veil over the dead to make sure they wouldn't be coming back to life, before burying them?'

I shake my head. 'So? It's barely a couple of function rooms for the old age pensioners' Bingo night now! What's keeping you?'

He imprints effort on his words: 'John, _I can't_ step forward! Whatever religious function it once had, apparently the memory subsides. I can't go on, it's stronger than me!'

I groan. _How did I ever think this could work?_

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	95. Chapter 95

_A/N: I know this mustn't be everyone's cup of tea. Worry not, it shall pass. Thanks. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.Vampire Sherlock - part three.**_

Sherlock stands at the edge of a promising crime scene, rooted to the spot, physically incapable of reach any further. He turns to me, as his only hope: 'You'll have to go without me, John! Take notes, lots of notes, and report back!'

'Great! Now vampires are scared of Bingo', I mutter, resentfully. Sherlock will only criticise my notes gathering. 'Behave out here, Sherlock. You better not let me come back and catch you trying to have a lie-down in one of the graves, while I do all the work...'

He looks fleetingly hurt before the cold mask falls into place, and at once I feel guilty. He shoves me forward all the same, apparently immobilized by some unbreakable magic.

Greg Lestrade has been eyeing us and he finds it strange, of course. 'What's wrong with the diva now? Why won't he come along?' he asks, frowning.

I act careless by replying: 'Something about a fantastic opportunity to study cobwebs to add to his latest blog post, or something. He'll join us when he's ready, if we're not done before he is.'

'Oh, alright, I guess... How's his blog going?'

I sigh tiredly. 'It has an average of ten to fifteen visitors a day.'

'It picked up a bit', Greg comments.

'Yeah, I've been opening his blog during my lunch hour at work too. He kept complaining five to ten visitors daily were too few.'

'So he still has no idea it's all you?'

'I haven't the heart to tell him he's lost his audience when describing the putrefaction of fish guts over a fortnight.'

'You never know when that knowledge is going to help solve a case!' Greg mimics our mad friend.

'It would have been over the course of three weeks, but Mrs H put an end to it.'

'And you were okay with it, John?' The inspector glances curiously my way.

I shrug. _We all have our hobbies._

As we walk inside the stone and mortar construction I can feel the cold damp of the narrow walls and low ceiling. There are silver candle holders chest-high still draped with melted wax drippings, an old velvet brocade fabric hanging from the wall, and a few dead flower arrangements forgotten in the room, making it stuffy and dusty.

I don't blame Sherlock, I don't like it in here either. The tight musky space feels claustrophobic, and Sherlock's coffin bed comes to mind. _He won't close the lid, will he?_ How horrible it'd be to get stuck in such a musty and breathless space, where you can hardly twist or turn, and to find yourself locked in it, your fast heartbeats pounding in your ears—

Greg lays a hand on my arm and I jump about a foot high, startled.

'Jees, John, are _you_ alright?'

'Yeah, it's just... This place is like a bloody mausoleum, a death crypt, and it's creeping me out.'

'The old folk's Bingo is through that door and this space has been left unused for quite a while... Are you sure you're alright there?'

'Yes, yes...' I take up my phone and start recording all in sight to send to Sherlock's phone. 'Sherlock says the bodies have been dead for decades?'

'Yeah.' Sarcastically, Greg adds: 'No one came through here in probably just as long. They all use the back door, that leads straight to the other room. Well, all except the murderer, bringing in the bodies. My team is looking for fingerprints. I have no witnesses. No one saw or heard a thing.'

I turn off the recording and send it straightaway. When I look back on the floor, I shiver. 'He brought the bodies each in a coffin. Who would suspect extra coffins in a cemetery? It's like hiding a tree in a forest!'

'Yeah, but you can't just walk in on a cemetery with a coffin under your arm, John! The guy must have come in when the gates were closed. My men are screening the cctv footage as we speak.'

I squat by the discoloured remains of an anonymous woman, surveying the pile of bones and dusty organic material. 'What is that?' My fingers carefully pull the remnants of some plastic polymers fabric blouse that outlasted the owner.

'You found something? What is that? A silver locket?'

I pick up the silver piece, looks a bit like the tip of a mini pyramid. 'I don't know, weird thing to wear around your neck, don't you think?' I ask Greg.

He shrugs. 'Most women's fashion is weird to me... Go on', the inspector looks away, pretending aggravation.

'What do you mean?'

'Go show that to our boy Sherlock. He'll tell us what it is.'

I smirk. _Yes, if anyone can make sense of this, it must be Sherlock Holmes._

Leading the way out with an intimate felling of relief and liberation, we go meet the impatient consulting detective outside.

'Well?' he snarls at me; presumably because I took so long.

'Half a dozen bodies, Sherlock, but take a look at this!' I show him the evidence, triumphantly.

At the sight of the seemingly harmless piece of silver, Sherlock recoils with a step back, before gathering his wits about him, in a desperate, jittery sort of fashion. 'Hurry, John, we must go!' He grabs me by my jacket's collar and starts pulling me along. I hardly have the time to pass the evidence to Lestrade, who takes it in absolute bewilderment.

'Have you solved the case? Sherlock, have you solved it?' he yells after us, as Sherlock imprints full speed – maybe a bit superhuman – to get us out of there.

'Almost!' Sherlock yells back over his shoulder. 'I'm only human, Lestrade!' he adds, before he checks himself.

 _ **.**_

'Bart's hospital', Sherlock directs the cab driver as soon as we get inside, just on the main road.

'Molly Hooper? Why do you need her? Sherlock, are you feeling unwell?'

He scrunches his face as we start picking up speed. 'Why does everyone keep asking me that?'

I don't have the guts to tell him that with him as a living undead we can't rely on visual clues anymore. He seems to get the message all the same and groans under his breath.

'It's not Molly I need. I must check on my vampire.'

I blink. _Oh, I had forgotten about that._

'You did remember to poke some holes in the shipping crate?' I joke.

Sherlock ignores me. Much too serious, he adds: 'I may have unleashed grave danger in London, John.'

'What do you mean?'

'I'm not the only vampire in London, John. And the other one isn't committed to a non-violent diet.'

I look over my shoulder to the road behind us. 'Those bodies... they're not decades old?'

'No. They got their lives sucked out of them with their last drop of blood, and that's why they look like dusty mummies.' Sherlock shows me his phone while he says this, letting me know he saw my footage. 'They are as fresh corpses as this past week ones. While I've been sucking pickled beetroots', he grimaces at the recollection, 'my prey has evaded my grasp and contented his dead heart's desire with Londoners.'

'Wouldn't anyone have – I don't know – noticed that?'

Sherlock frowns on me. I sigh; he's right. London is too big, too busy. It can easily become a serial killer's gourmet restaurant.

'Every life he sucks to completion', Sherlock carries on, 'gives him extra strength. He's becoming more powerful, too powerful. That's how he could walk in there with those bodies and dump them while I couldn't go near the place. He's stronger than I am. Much stronger, John. You and I are the only two in London that know of this menace, and we must contain it at all costs.'

I nod. He's got my full support.

 _ **.**_

On a dark broom closet in the far depths of Bart's basement, Sherlock's suspicions are confirmed as we find, blitzed to pieces, the remnants of the shipping crate, a forced lock and no signs of the apprehended vampire.

It's the laboratorial test subject's runaway act.

I shake my head. No, the vampire probably played Sherlock all along. He got this easy London re-homing – the one the legendary Dracula tried himself – on Sherlock's account.

 _We have a serial killer vampire to stop before he turns all of London into dead bodies or creates an army of fellow vampires._

It doesn't sound any more credible when I repeat my thoughts aloud for Sherlock.

My friend just sighs, tiredly.

 _ **.**_

"Sherlock, the tea loving vampire."

No one ever heard of a tea sucking vampire, but then again my friend was never one to play by the rules. Besides, he says it warms him up. Being undead, he's always dead cold. I think we had a hot water bottle somewhere in the flat, I must see if I can find it.

As I walk over to the kettle to make us both some tea, I find Sherlock has already placed himself in the kitchen. Probably he knows better my routine habits of tea making than I do.

'What are you doing?' I ask my friend.

'Experiments', he answers me; laconic, indifferent.

I stick around, hoping for an upgraded version of that answer. Sherlock is focused elsewhere, though. He has a pair of children's scissors and grabs a lock of his hair from his bangs _(of course Sherlock doesn't have bangs, of course they are not bangs, Sherlock!)_ by tilting his head – all cross-eyed and innocent looking while at it – and with the instrument in his hand he snips them.

'Hair cut?' I try to understand.

Sherlock glances up straight at me, his eyes a deep crystalline blue today. I almost lose focus of his cut bunch of hair. But then I realise... it's growing back, quickly.

Sherlock holds the cut hair by the tips of his fingers. But his cut lock grew back at once.

'Cool trick. How do you...?'

'Vampire blood. I don't grow old, I don't bleed out. Apparently I can't have a hair cut either. Not that I needed one, John.'

The vain detective always enjoyed immensely his own image.

'What do you mean, you don't bleed out?'

He grabs the scissors as if to stab his leg. Before he can do that, I urge him, in caught voice: 'Please don't exemplify this one.'

'Why not? You're a doctor, on standby.'

I blink. 'Because I don't want to have to convince the A&E to install a coffin for a bed.'

He shrugs. 'Oh, okay. But for the record, you're a better doctor than that.'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	96. Chapter 96

_A/N: This chapter turned out to be more of a collection of little vigntettes, in a way a bit more like scenes on a tv show (which is perhaps not too out of place). Hope it's enjoyable all the same. Thanks. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.Vampire Sherlock - part four.**_

I enter 221B with a spring in my step. Tea and telly for me, and I'll be out for the next couple of hours, thank you! Long day at the surgery it was.

The curtains are drawn closed in the living room, and no electric light animates the familiar space. Maybe my friend got night vision with his vampirism; maybe he just couldn't be bothered.

I guess Sherlock is up and about already, but he's nowhere to be seen.

I'm about to turn on a light, but I stop short as I hear a small whimpering sound. _What was that?_

Again! I instinctively look up. There, on the bookshelves by my armchair, perched on the top slot, a small kitten, helpless and staring down at me. _Meow_ , and the kitten tries to calculate a jump to my chair below, but hesitates and gives up in the end; it's too high.

'Sherlock?' I call out, never parting my eyes from the small animal. 'Why is there a cat among the books?'

My friend gangly enters the living room, dressing gown flapping behind his steps.

'Oh', he comments, as if that was enough.

'Whose cat is it?' I pry the information out of the reluctant detective.

'Client's missing cat. Well, not missing anymore. Client will collect later.'

'What is he doing up there?'

'He didn't like my fangs.'

'Your fangs! Sherlock, you didn't!'

'I didn't. It was an organic reaction as I patted him. He hissed and clawed at me before running up there, from where he can't come down now. I guess he sensed the vampire in me.'

'Oh.' I'm feeling sorry for Sherlock. 'Shall I coax him down?'

Sherlock shrugs, feigning indifference, but I can tell my friend's feelings are hurt.

 _ **.**_

'What keeps me from breaking into Scotland Yard and rummaging through their case files to select a few for myself?' Sherlock enquires, deceptively unconcerned.

'It'd be morally wrong, for starters.'

'No one would be able to stop me. I'm stronger than a dozen men right now!' Sherlock growls proudly.

I frown, under the cover of stretching to reach the higher shelf with my fingertips, as I slide in there a nice double bowl of cat food and water. The cat purrs as he tucks in at once, famished. _This is not good_. The longer my friend is under this supernatural spell the more his personality is under this evil influence. His morals change, personal gain becomes the more alluring, no matter the cost. This is a dark side of Sherlock – one we all have, without exception – being brought out and stimulated by the vampire nature, just like an addiction.

 _And, man, can my friend do addiction by the bucket full._

'Sherlock, you're not thinking clearly. You—'

'Oh, stop nagging, John! Always telling me what to do! Should I be just like you?'

I blink, then lick my lips. Silently. Finally I look around, focus on the kitchen, and head mechanically towards the kettle for a cup of tea. I stop short after the first steps.

'I'm only trying to help, Sherlock', I make sure to tell him. It's important that he knows it.

He grumps, neither admitting nor declining my input, and storms off from the living room.

 _ **.**_

I wake up in the morning after my argument with Sherlock to a bedside table with a peace offering cup of tea. In fact, there's not only one stone cold cuppa resting there (it's been brewed hours ago, before Sherlock turned in), but several, lined up with scientific precision – or obsession.

A small smile comes to light up the corners of my mouth. It's okay, really. And it feels particularly nice to sense the thankfulness of my flatmate, who trusts my input during his demanding predicament, emotionally challenging and potentially frightening as we know not how this situation will turn out.

Sherlock refuses to focus on the negative, diseased side of his current condition, full of faith of his control over it. I take it all more guardedly. All I know for sure is that, no matter what comes, I'll make sure Sherlock is not alone facing it.

 _ **.**_

The crazy clock machine in the living room puffs out six in the afternoon. The winter early sunset has already settled over London. Sherlock stops abruptly his self-soothing concentric circles about the living room floor and faces me in my armchair with a professorial air to him.

'Our serial killer is a vampire, John.'

'You said that before', I bait the detective. 'How will that help us find his next victim and save them? Do you guys have a favourite food group among humans?'

Sherlock doesn't skip a beat. 'Yes, mine is stocky blond bloggers, obviously, John.'

I chuckle at that. 'No, I mean... Does a redhead taste different, for instance? Or is it by blood type? Will age make a difference?'

I can tell my questions are getting to Sherlock, in a way I didn't quite predict. He blurts out, almost accusingly, as if I had been taunting him: 'I wouldn't know, John! You won't let me find out!'

'Hey, don't pin it on me! You don't want to be a killer, or spread your vampirism – you agreed with me it couldn't happen! You're doing great, really great, and proving to the world—'

He cuts me off: 'It doesn't matter, John! Can't you see? Those victims left at the cemetery, they weren't innocent!'

'What?' _He's lost me._

'Silver! Chemical symbol "Ag", relative atomic number of 47!'

 _No. I'm so lost I could be drifting at sea._

'Sherlock, I don't follow.'

'That piece of silver you found on the dead woman. That wasn't part of a jewellery piece. That was the murder weapon! Silver is used to kill vampires, John! We can self-heal from any wound, except for one done with a silver instrument!'

I find myself holding my breath. _I didn't know that._ These vampire rules are very taxing and unpredictable.

'Are you saying the vampire you let loose in London is killing _other vampires_? There were other vampires in London already?'

'There will be more of us anywhere in the world, John!' he agrees. 'And every time the master vampire kills another of his kind he gains advantage. He's getting much too powerful, John.'

'No, it can't be.' My mind is reeling. I've been forcing Sherlock to a sort of vegan lifestyle, all the while making him weaker than the nemesis he's bound to face.

Sherlock grabs the switchblade knife stuck on the mantel and, much to my horror, he open his other hand wide, palm up, and trails the sharp blade over his exposed skin. I spring from my chair at once.

'Stop that! What do you think you're doing, are you—'

I don't get to finish my insult. As I reach Sherlock he's licking his own wound and returning his open palm to the space between us. There, on the pale skin, the narrow red line is receding and closing itself, leaving no sign of injury. No scar, no inflammation, it's like nothing happened.

'I don't taste half bad', Sherlock comments, lightly. I look up to his face, there's still a tiny red smudge at the corner of his mouth to prove _this_ has actually happened.

Sherlock flips the knife in the air one-handed so that the handle is my way, and offers it to me. 'Go ahead, John. Stab me.'

'What?'

'I'll heal, worry not. Think of a time I angered you, if it helps.'

I shake my head desperately. 'Can't do that. Can't hurt you like that, Sherlock.'

'You saw it. I heal.'

I still won't take the weapon. I rather take his word for it.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at me, tosses the blade in the air back his way, grabs it and yanks it against his thigh. It goes in about half way through the length of the blade. I yell, and over ventilate, and desperately go into doctor mode, trying to assess the wound, stabilise it, check for the extent of the muscle damage and blood loss, and get an ambulance. Sherlock pushes me away and pulls out the blade. Much to my surprise, the bleeding stops in less than a couple of seconds.

'Are you daft?' I shout, angrily.

'Want to have a go with the knife now? You seem sufficiently angered.'

I groan, shocked. Sherlock ponders quietly: 'In hindsight I needn't have ruined these suit trousers. Oh well.'

'Sherlock!'

'Is it proof enough? Do you require further evidence, John?'

I turn around and walk off the living room. 'You'll be the death of me yet, Sherlock Holmes.'

 _ **.**_

Sherlock wants to have another go at the clues from the master vampire's case. We wait till it's safe and dark outside. I actually convinced Sherlock to take the underground this time, and it wasn't as difficult as I predicted. He seems more willing to stuff himself in a claustrophobic tunnel far below the surface. Go figure.

Too many people all around us now. Commuters just like us. Sherlock is getting annoyed by the jolts in our bumpy ride, and the lack of personal space. Soon he turns to the youth by his side – the one with the loud music filtering in through his headphones – and he hisses, fangs on display.

The kid grins. 'That's sick, man!' he admires greatly. 'Nice!'

Sherlock turns to me with a desolate expression of failure.

It doesn't help that it's not a costume he can shed when he wishes.

 _ **.**_

'Superior craftsmanship', Sherlock analyses the smooth finish of the coffin. How he knows this, I'm not quite sure; maybe there's an automatic subscription to Coffins Limited magazine if you're a vampire. 'Probably custom made to order, luxury materials, no expenses saved. Well, I guess it's an investment. If you are to keep it for the rest of your life, and as a vampire that equates to eternity.'

I don't comment as my friend is drooling over a coffin in the Scotland Yard's evidence storage warehouse (where the bigger items are kept). DI Lestrade has allowed us to look at the coffins where the victims were discovered. We were hoping Sherlock could find some clue under the all scrutinising LED ceiling light, that he may have missed from my amateur recording on site.

Glancing at the door we left ajar, I wonder what would anyone from the Yard make of Sherlock's words if overheard. Possibly they wouldn't be shocked, with it being Sherlock Holmes.

'Any clues?' I bid my friend.

'Middle European built, approximately three centuries old. This coffin belonged to a very powerful lady vampire of high status and class.'

I look straight at my friend. He's carefully studying the lace lining of the coffin.

'She was that powerful and he still managed to kill her?' I point out.

Sherlock smirks. 'Good, John, you're getting it now.'

'No, I'm not. Has _your_ vampire been around longer than three centuries? The one you captured and shipped back to London?'

'Either that or he's extremely cunning, John.'

I gulp drily. We've got our work cut out for us. After all, we're the only ones in all of London who seem to know this master vampire is in the UK. It's up to us to stop him before he turns all of humanity into vampires and, in due time, consume us.

Sherlock shivers uncontrollably, I notice. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, my friend is always cold now. Under his breath I can hear him say:

'I will never let him suck your blood, John. That's to be my privilege, if you ever choose so.'

Getting a bit territorial, is old Sherlock; must be the vampire blood in him.

 _ **.**_

'John, I'm the undead one.'

I blink, still groggy from sleep. Was that a heavy encyclopaedic volume he dropped from above over the table? Did he mean to wake me up so harshly, after I fell asleep over the kitchen table?

'What?'

'Don't take it personally, but you look worse off than I do.'

'How would you know? You have no reflection.'

'I retain the general groomed appearance of before my transformation. Don't change the subject. You haven't been sleeping enough. Not by night, at my side, and not during the day hours, when I'm confined to the flat as my safe refuge and you are free to do what you want. And, what has it pleased you to do, John?'

I blink. Sherlock's on a crusade now. _Privacy_ is not a word he keeps on his vocabulary all that often, I should have known a homebound genius would soon turn his deductive powers on his flatmate.

'Been up reading till late', I say.

'You're the worst liar, John, I've ever known.'

I yawn. It's not even a lie. It's the truth.

Sherlock won't wait for a straight answer. He quickly slips my notebook from my jacket and opens it unabashedly.

'Hey, that's mine! Give it back!'

Sherlock's eyebrows rise on his forehead as he takes in my recent studies on vampire lore. Hundreds of short annotations line the pages.

'You're worried about me.'

'Is that book the major clue?' I grump. _Thought it was fairly obvious._

He glances up at me. _Guess maybe not._

There are things – feelings mostly – that at times Sherlock needs spelled out for him.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	97. Chapter 97

_A/N:_ _Chapters just pile up, sorry!_ _-csf_

* * *

 _ **.Vampire Sherlock - part five.**_

London doesn't stop just because a super strong vampire demon creature hides in its shadows, hunting innocent victims, picking up speed with the moon cycle. The nights wear on, and Sherlock and I keep taking other cases, from clients and the Scotland Yard (and some unmentionable foreign intelligence agencies), while we try to adjust to Sherlock's new routine. Sherlock keeps to Baker Street by day – with all the windows barred with a few layers of heavy curtains – and we take to the streets by night.

Slowly we come to understand that Sherlock is at his best levels of energy on the cloudless nights, when the moon shines the brightest in the clear firmament. He's also hungriest on these occasions, and he's been fighting hard to keep his compulsions under check.

Other new habits took less effort for the eccentric detective than his nourishment plans. For instance, his sleep. He just grabbed a pillow from his bed, threw it on the high quality lining of the new coffin and bidding me Goodnight at the early hours of the new day he lied down in the new piece of bedroom furniture, arms crossed over his chest, closed eyes, and sighed sweetly into complete stillness.

It freaked me out. I had to check whether he was breathing, considering all the other vital clues weren't available. He's cold, his skin is deadly pale and his heartbeat is as his breathing – I came to find out – almost non-existent.

Every day that passes – or night – Sherlock becomes more _undead._

I don't think I can handle this much longer. It's excruciating to watch him die ever so slowly. As Sherlock reposes during the day hours (some of them, at least) I try desperately to look for old volumes of knowledge in the local libraries, searching for a way to bring him back to life.

Today I found my answer. Under utter shock, I returned to Baker Street as if in some trance, the words I have read still burning in my head.

 _Sherlock can only fully return to the common living if the vampire that poisoned his nature and blood is forever eliminated. Preferably sooner rather than later._

I was hoping for some concoction as an antidote, or some black magic ritual.

The vampire we must end, conveniently, is the same serial killer we seek.

Less than conveniently, he's stronger than any beast and his whereabouts are utterly unknown.

I fear that if another full moon passes, Sherlock may succumb permanently to the spell, and be destined as a vampire forever.

Unbeknown to Sherlock, who mustn't be burdened with my concern over him, I vow not to let this happen.

 _ **.**_

'John, how do I look?'

'You look fine', I dismiss. 'Anyway, why are you asking me that? Are you going on a date or something?'

He rolls his eyes. 'No reflection, remember? Mirrors don't work for vampires and shaving is a bit of a nightmare.'

'Yeah, I can imagine. You missed a spot.'

'Where?' the vain detective worries at once. _I was lying._

'You brought it on yourself, Sherlock, remember? "For science", you said?'

He presses his lips, pouting it'd seem.

'John, you may want to put on a suit.'

'Nope, I'm fine the way I am.'

Sherlock throws me a doubtful look, still scrubbing his cheeks with his fingertips, feeling for the missed spot. Finally he realises that shaving is a silly exercise as his hair only grows _back_ , it doesn't spontaneously grow overnight anymore. He quietly lowers his hand, as if in a bit of a daze. Meanwhile, I'm standing my ground. There's not enough space for so much narcissism in Baker Street. Sherlock won't recommend me a suit again. He's already putting on his long coat and scarf. I follow him at once, grabbing my jacket.

'Where are we going?'

'To get me fitted for a high quality coffin, John', he announces. The sudden mental image makes me shiver uncontrollably. I'm just glad Sherlock doesn't notice it, standing by the mirror above the fireplace – in vain looking at its surface. He huffs in frustration and turns my way instead.

'You've got a spot of shaving cream on your chin, Sherlock', I lie on the spot.

He's sure to be rubbing his chin all the way over to the coffin manufacturer's store, I'm sure.

 _ **.**_

 _Coffins galore._ Still, not the strangest store that Sherlock has ever dragged me into. I gathered that Sherlock wants to test some theory over the coffins left next door to the Bingo room by our vampire killer, and he's come to the best expert store he could find to satisfy his curiosity.

Why he's dragged me along is beyond me, though. After the first three quarters of an hour exposition on makes and models, I've tuned off and just take the precaution of nodding here and there.

Good grief! Now Sherlock wants to have a feel of the premium French lace that could line the latest model...

The unctuous assistant that keeps his eyes firmly grounded on Sherlock at all times nods politely, makes a small bow and exits momentarily.

Sherlock's half-smile breaks abruptly as he turns to me, brimming with energy.

'Quickly, John! Get inside the coffin!' Sherlock demands, pointing at the nearest deluxe, handcrafted, Norwegian pine coffin.

'What!'

'Let's say it's for a test drive. Get in!'

For some inexplicable reason I always end up following Sherlock's bidding, and I climb into the display model with my friend's assistance. We can hear the shop assistant making his way back to the show room. Sherlock yanks the coffin lid down over me, trapping me in claustrophobic darkness. Immediately I try to push it open, but Sherlock seems to be leaning heavily on the lid, keeping me in hiding. I can hear their muffled voices now.

'I got those samples you asked for, Mr Holmes.'

'That's very kind of you. I'm leaning towards a lead lined coffin myself.'

'A specialist product, I see. You're a knowledgeable man, Mr Holmes.'

'There's nothing quite like re-enacting the Black Death plague, they say.'

'If you've not been there the first time around', the assistant comments. 'I take it you are a new member?'

Sherlock's voice is calm and unctuous as he replies: 'What gave me away?'

'And your friend?' the shop assistant hesitates.

'I sent him away to get some breathing space. He's quite needy.'

The assistant laughs politely. 'It's always good to have a live-in, for when you feel peckish. I can tell you haven't been using him regularly.'

'You can?' There's genuine surprise underlying Sherlock's voice.

'He looks much too healthy.'

'You have a long experience, I gather.'

'That coffin over there, Mr Holmes, is our historical piece on display. It was built four centuries ago. I was there, watching the artisan, and giving him my directions.'

'I take it that artisan was not a vampire and he won't be around to take my order?'

'Oh, no. I dried him out as he finished his masterpiece. I made sure it would be one of a kind. And, of course, his blood was wonderful. You could make out the earthy taste of the wood he worked on every day, with a bitter touch of arsenic preservatives.'

In the darkness, I'm feeling queasier by the second, and I'm not sure it's for being trapped with little oxygen left anymore.

'I don't think I want to bleed out John.'

'He's your first?' the assistant guesses. 'Yes, savour your first. You will never quite feel it as exciting as with your first one... But I'd recommend you'd open that lid a bit before he suffocates inside our economy model, Mr Holmes. I can hear his little oxygen-starved gasps from within.'

Sherlock moves away from the lid, finally freeing me.

'You knew all along.'

'Oh yes, Mr Holmes. I know how selfish we get with our first human. It's only natural to keep such a special one for yourself, and I wouldn't dream of drinking from your friend.'

' _I would never let you.'_

Raising the lid slightly I can just about see the flurry of colour as the assistant hurls himself at Sherlock. _What did I miss?_ Suddenly they are across the room, Sherlock pinned against the wall by his neck, the assistant holding him tight. Sherlock tries to fight, but he's too weak, due to a poor diet and being new as a vampire. He struggles fruitlessly. I jump out of my pine box at once.

'How daring of you to come meet me, Mr Holmes. I made you, it's my blood that runs in your veins. I have let you hunt me for fun, and get me out of that high security research facility. Now I'm free again, but make no mistake; I owe you nothing. If you stand in my way, I'll suck you dry on the spot.'

I pull my gun out of my belt. What can a 9mm calibre bullet do to stop a master vampire, though?

'Before your friend gets here', the assistant continues, 'let me just finish by saying I'm already too powerful for you. As long as I keep hunting vampires I'll only get more invincible.'

Sherlock blinks. 'That makes for poor semantics, really. If you are already "invincible", as you say, you can't become "more invincible". Either you are, or aren't, invincible. My guess is that you are not.'

The vampire in control sniggers. 'Just try me, Mr Holmes.' Then he speeds the action by releasing Sherlock and, in the same second, grabbing something out of his belt and, turning, bringing it down sharply on me.

I gasp and look down. There's now a knife stuck on my stomach. The scene starts going blurry at once.

I blink and the master vampire is gone. Sherlock is rooted to the spot, shocked and panicking.

'It's alright, Sherlock, it's nothing!' I gasp, holding tight my rib cage, each word marked by sharp pain. 'Just a flesh wound.'

As I look up to my friend his blue eyes are clouded and his brows carry a storm of guilt and worry alike. However it's not so comforting to notice that his canine teeth are elongating, his lips are reddening; soon his eyes darken too.

 _My blood._ The vampire in Sherlock is reacting to my blood letting.

My friend hauls himself away, against the far wall, fighting with every ounce of his willpower to stay in control of his infected soul, the one that desires to pin me to the laminate floor and lap out my blood.

Weird as it sounds, I should probably let him. I've got good blood going to waste here, let's be pragmatic. But a small lick would turn to a more sinister draining in no time. Then, what? I too would become a vampire. Could I have the restraint not to go about sucking people's blood?

Typical! That I'd become a vampire back in London, after all the free meals in the War...

No, wait! No! I won't become a vampire. No. It's not right. It wouldn't help Sherlock, who is already in a deep battle over his more animalistic streak, at a lack for a better word, and if I gave in, he'd give in too, to his deepest darkest desires, and we'd both end up roaming the earth sucking the life blood out of everyone. We'd be an invincible pair, in a whirlwind of adventure and peril, and I'd love that; only it'd be wrong.

We've been managing to keep Sherlock on a vegan type of diet, but it's been an uphill struggle. I cannot jeopardise what we have managed to achieve so far in controlling Sherlock's condition.

If I became a vampire too, I wouldn't be able to watch out over Sherlock, guide him as he feels faint passing churches (and there are so many of them in London), and keep him from biting Lestrade when "he's being annoying". Everyone "annoys" Sherlock. Soon the whole gang would become a vampire society, holding secret gatherings at Baker Street, and...

 _I think I'd like that._

But not today. It's too soon, and Sherlock's power is not yet fully harnessed. For now I need to dress my wound out of Sherlock's sight and smell. Struggling to get up on my own, holding Sherlock at a distance with an imperious hand gesture, I try to self-assess the severity of my wound.

Sherlock is looking away, strained, as he asks me: 'You're afraid I'd hurt you, John?' There's pain and a heavy heart concealed behind cold and exact words, but also the innocent query tones of a child, in my friend's voice.

'No, I'm afraid I'd let you', I answer truthfully, making him jolt his head and face me with intensity.

'What is your wish, John?' he asks me. Dangerously.

'Not to be a vampire just yet', I reply, tense. 'Sorry', I add in a whisper.

'You need never apologise to me, John', he assures me, earnestly. He holds himself against the wall, fighting his inner demons as he too gets up. He won't come near, but he takes up his phone and dials for rescue. I huff, annoyed. He appeases me at once: 'I know you dislike hospitals as much as I do, John, but I can't provide help this time and your bleeding is increasing. Don't bother denying it. _I can smell it._ '

'Okay', I give in, slumping back on the blood stained floor.

'Can I ask them to bring some blood for an emergency transfusion? My favourite flavour is O negative.'

'How do you even know—'

'Molly has smuggled me a sample of each. I told her it was for an experiment. In a way, it was.'

I groan in pain. He immediately backtracks: 'Enough about me, let's get you that ambulance, John. You are spending the night at the hospital.'

'But you'd be alone!'

'You're no help to me in the state you're in, John. And I won't help you discharge yourself from the hospital without medical clearance, not this time.'

'How about that ambulance? Don't you have a phone call to make?' I growl at him.

'Mycroft is on it. The emergency services have got tired of us dialling for ambulances so often. This makes for a change.'

He's got a point, regretfully.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	98. Chapter 98

_A/N: Just a friendly reminder that last instalment John got hurt by their ultimate vampire nemesis and Sherlock was fighting a desperate battle to keep his control. Huh, it's not exactly happy fluffy bunnies with me, is it? Told you, I'm not a writer! -csf_

* * *

 ** _.Vampire Sherlock - part six._**

The paramedic shouts out short orders, effective. Someone pins me down on the gurney to chuck me inside the claustrophobic confinement of an ambulance.

'What's your name, sir? What happened?'

I try to answer, I really do, but no sounds rises up to my chapped lips. Sherlock will answer, he always has the last word anyway.

Only as I'm slipping into unconsciousness do I notice Sherlock is not there. He's nowhere to be seen.

 _ **.**_

 _Sherlock's vampire addiction was very tame, compared to mine. This relentless need to feed myself of warm blood consumes me every moment I'm awake and fills with horror haunting my every sleep. Eat and sleep, basic human needs, turn dark with desires roaming free. Either Sherlock needed less of those needs, or he kept himself under better check. He now watches me worriedly as I try to go through my days. The tables have turned, slowly the memory of life before this haunting existence has started to fade._

 _I seem to need more rest during the day hours than Sherlock ever did, and fall into a deep slumber from which not even the whirlwind of my excited friend on the verge of a case epiphany can rise me. I often have this feeling that during my "lights out" time, my best friend keeps close, monitoring my state, worried I go deeper through the vampire stages too soon._

 _Sherlock has infected me with his curse. A possessive gesture meant to protect me from being another vampire's food. He wanted to keep me safe. That turned out being short sighted, in the least. There's this big flaw in the theory, at least as big as the English channel. Much unlike we did, I can never hunt down the vampire that turned me and eliminate the curse the flows in my veins. He is my best friend. Sherlock keeps his hopes in finding an alternative way of "saving me". Personally, I think I'm beyond salvation now._

 _I grasp on to the hope that I can have enough discernment, enough control, to keep my actions pure, dreading the alternative; that I would have to exhile myself. I would do that – in order to keep my friends, and the general population, safe from me._

 _I'm a grave danger to all, right now._

 _ **.**_

I toss and turn. Restless. Haunted. There's a rhythmic noise close by. I recognise its familiar metric, like a metronome to life. I let it lull me back into deeper sleep.

 _ **.**_

 _Sherlock smiles contentedly as the criminal is whirled away by Lestrade. He turns his face to me, basking on my admiration. But what he sees in me is more than he had bargained for. Sherlock's success is intoxicating, full of that joy of life that pulses in his veins, such an alluring scent, too strong for me to ignore. I can just about feel my fangs, sharp and moist, peeking out. I can more easily see Sherlock's sharp intake of air, his small whimper as he knows how I want to ravish his neck, drink his blood. He always lets me._

 _'Your case is over, Sherlock', I remind him of his promise. He stiffens a touch, as if I'm taunting him now. Not at all. Sherlock is my favourite human. His blood is repast for my soul, it replenishes my faltering strengths. It's been so long since I had but a small sip of life blood. The vampire in me aches for a bite, the completion of the universal cycle of feed, I need my friend to give in to me in full trust, as I release his blood rushing into my veins._

 _'But I'm so tired, John', he tells me. 'Only two nights ago I gave you my blood.'_

 _'Just a little then, and just a little now. Just enough.' I step closer, morphing my features to a magnetic type of smile. He keeps his eyes on me, mesmerized by the sight. I've cornered my friend at the darkest spot in the alley. Just a small sip, no one will see us._

 _No wonder people talk._

 _Sherlock always leaves some dark spot looking pale, shivering, out of breath. On more than one occasion I've been seen licking my lips, pulling him alongside me with a strong hand in his arm. Because this is the vampire's controlling nature surfacing after a feed, and Sherlock is either too willing to play submissive to me, or too exhausted to fight the inevitable._

 _Sherlock looks down, and nods, almost coyly. I smirk and growl under my breath, as I grab him by the biceps to steady him. I inch closer, Sherlock doesn't flinch anymore, he's grown used to what comes next. He leans slightly to the wall behind him and angles his neck, exposing that beautiful jugular, where I can trace his heartbeat with my tongue and feel the traces of salt on his skin. Because I'm shorter he leans forward to allow me reach, and I bask in that voluntary offering that makes Sherlock's blood the most exquisite thing I ever tasted, as a mortal and as a vampire._

 _He whimpers at the first sharp pain, then steadies himself for my sucking. Soon he's dropping forward, gingerly, as he loses strengths. Just a little more, Sherlock, I'm so hungry, you took so long to solve your case._

 _'John...' he whispers my name as a pleaded gasp. I freeze and pull back at once, scrutinizing his face in deep concern. Have I gone to far, have I hurt him more than he can recover? He is pale and cold and I envelop him in my arms, thankful of his generous friendship towards me, a wretched vampire._

 _'Let's get you home, you need a good dinner and a full night's sleep.'_

 _'Yes, John', he accepts meekly. Too tired to speak in full sentences._

 _As for me, I feel invincible, I feel like a million pounds and a bright future. I grab my skinny friend that still sways on the spot, and give myself the job of taking him home._

 _Thanks, Sherlock._

 _ **.**_

Someone is pressing a thin prickling object to my cold skin. I moan and turn my face away from the IV line needle. I'm a doctor, I should supervise, but I find that I'm too tired to care for my neglected patient.

 _ **.**_

 _It's a dark alley. Damp, dirty, where not even the cool moonlight beans that energise me can reach. It could be the end of the world for all I know. Maybe it is. If not for me than for the half a dozen victims I brought into my deserted lair. As a vampire it was easy to lure them, engage their curiosity, entrap them, use their blood as my meal. No one will ever know, no one will ever stop me._

 _Perhaps Sherlock knows, sometimes I wonder how can he not. The mortal detective is almost all seeing, and I have left him enough signs of devastation for him not to know I'm behind them. That his blood, volunteered in generous friendship, was not enough. That I find cheap thrill in hunting worthless humans and compensating that elemental hunger with easy blood shed._

 _Women, men, they have all fallen to my feet. The moon shines full up there, drawing sharp silhouettes of the sharp corners of the tall brick buildings, urging me to find one last victim._

 _Behind me, someone strolls in on the narrow alley, straight to a trap they could not foresee. My fangs elongate, my fists ball up. One last human before I head home._

 _My victorious smile breaks as I turn towards the mouth of the alley and recognise the tall figure enveloped in a long coat, standing there in an absolute freeze frame._

 _Sherlock._

 _'Go home, mate.'_

 _He looks around, and mentally tallies the bodies piled up._

 _'This isn't you, John.'_

 _The smile turns bitter and old._

 _'Of course it is, I'm a vampire now.'_

 _'I can't let you carry on doing this.' Always the hero, however reluctant to identify as one._

 _I laugh derisively. Hollow, mocking, mirthless laughter._

 _'How would you stop me?'_

 _He slowly raises a gun. I shake my head. 'Bullets can't stop me, remember?'_

 _'This one can', he states calmly, and presses the trigger._

 _ **.**_

'Sherlock!' I shout out as I come to, groggily, from the confinements of a standard hospital bed. A saline bag is monotonously dripping bedside, my vitals beep frantically, and the nurses pass idly by in their overalls. One spots me awake.

'Oh, Mr Watson.' I see her catch my name at the paperwork by the end of the bed. _Smoothly done._ 'Is it your friend you're looking for? He always comes at sundown for a visit. He'll be here soon, I imagine.'

Yes, that it. Sherlock, the only vampire, is responsibly keeping himself away from the hospital, that must be perceived as a restaurant of opportunities to a starved vampire.

'What time is it?' I grimace, hazy. 'How long have I been in here?'

She only answers that last one, checking the medical file. 'You've been admitted two days ago. Lost quite a bit of blood. Stab wound, I gather the police will want to have a word with you before you leave.'

'Greg...' I recognise, still confused. Lestrade will take care of the statements, I'm sure.

And Sherlock won't even have to try and solve this case.

'Who's Greg?'

'The police.'

'The police?'

'Never mind.' I shake my head. 'Will you wake me up when my friend arrives? It's incredibly important I see him.'

She smiles benignly and walks away without actually promising to do that. _As a doctor, I know that trick also._

I let my head fall back on the flat pillow of the NHS guidelines, and worry about Sherlock, the undead vampire. Is he okay? Is he safe? As he been talking care of himself?

Feeling a bit cheated that Sherlock could not be around as I came to my senses, alone in a hospital full of strangers with visitors, I pull the threadbare bed sheet closer. Sherlock couldn't be here. Sherlock couldn't help but to force me to come to hospital because he couldn't help me doctor myself to health like we normally do when our cases go wrong. I know that.

Being a vampire is bloody lonely, and not only for the vampire in question.

 ** _._**

'Sherlock?'

I call out my flatmate as I make my way up to 221B on my own. Finally discharged from the sterile and boring hospital scenery, I'm anxious to get back to work with my mad friend, to check on him, to de-vampire him.

'Sherlock, are you awake?' It's daytime, after all.

The lanky detective is found in the kitchen, his back turned to me. On my call he turns slightly and faces me from over his shoulder, all the rest of his body assuming a rigid stiffness as if just caught out. Judging by the trickle of blood that drips along his chin, I seem to have done just that.

He was sucking blood. Willing victim or a vicious attack, Sherlock has finally crossed the line. He's got some poor creature in 221B's kitchen and he's been draining the blood out of—

I sag against the wall just behind me. Shocked. But what did I seriously expect? This is Sherlock's new nature. How could he force himself to be something he's not?

God, I hope he's not vampiring Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock looks embarrassed now, as he steps back and shows me the mess he's made.

A small hint of a smile comes unbidden to my lips. _A blood bag?_ Sherlock was sucking dry a blood bag.

But why not just use a wine glass or even a mug? Why go over the top?

He seems to be noticing all that as well. The blood smeared on the counter, the drops on his shirt, bright and vivid red, and he uses the back of his hand to clean his jaw (it just adds to the mess).

'What happened?' I ask quietly.

'I was famished, John.'

'I can see that', I mutter. Sherlock has always been a bit of an emotional eater, at times of stress. _Has he been missing me?_

'I even went to the supermarket, John. Me! But I found myself eyeing the other customers more than the red velvet cake that didn't look all that appetising anyway.'

I smile softly. 'Did Molly get you that bag?'

'Yes. She doesn't know. If she asks, I'm calculating the rate of blood coagulation at low temperatures again. I had to find a convenient lie. She wouldn't just give me the blood no matter how much I asked.'

I unpeel myself from the wall with some effort. He gently comes to help me reach the nearest chair.

'So, what does it taste like?' I huff as I sag onto the chair.

'Heaven, John. Much better than red velvet cake.'

I nod. I expected as much. 'Be more careful, Sherlock, don't let so much go to waste. You're getting thinner by the day. It will do you good, Sherlock.'

He smirks. 'I'll share if you want to give it a try.'

I shake my head, eyeing the kettle myself. 'I take your word for it. Doesn't seem all that appealing to me, Sherlock.'

 _ **.**_

The novelty wears out quickly.

'That's creepy.'

'What?'

'Really? I need to spell it out? You're sucking that blood bag whilst staring at me, Sherlock.'

'Just fantasising, John.'

I almost choke on my tea. 'What?' I splutter between coughs.

He focuses on me, and his fangs slowly retract. A picture of innocence. He looks just like the old Sherlock again.

'You never asked me, John. If you had asked me I would have told you I wanted you to be a vampire too. I would love to be the one to make you like me, John. That's all.'

'Why?' I sound a bit suspicious. Maybe I am. This is a turn of events, Sherlock openly speaking of his emotions.

'Immortality, John. I don't want to see you grow old and die.'

I smirk. 'Look, with the life we live, what are the honest chances of that?'

Sherlock takes a second to let it sink in, my early demise, and then growls, fangs coming out with ease: 'Say Yes, John', he orders me, sternly.

'What? No! You can't bully me into becoming a vampire!'

He immediately changes tactics. With puppy eyes he begs: 'Please?'

I get up, too disturbed by it all. 'Not today, Sherlock', is all I know for sure. Not today.

He watches me leave with a worried glint on an otherwise expressionless face. His most honest demonstration of all the dramatic antics in our conversation.

 _ **.**_

When I next come to the living room, is to find a deflated version of my friend, sat boneless on his armchair, almost to the point where he's sliding to the floor. It wouldn't be an all that unusual picture of the moody detective if the front of his shirt hadn't become drenched in... _red_. Another blood bag, I take it. But just in any case I look around for the client's cat, that small unclaimed creature that just recently started accepting the vampire detective.

'Oh, the cat is perched up there again', I say, starting whatever conversation I can amass.

The dejected detective waves off the subject with his hand. 'I put him there. His smell was too nice. He was getting me on edge, bringing out the vampire in me.'

I feel guilty for having left Sherlock alone for the last couple of days.

'Tough day?' I enquire about the afternoon I spent napping in my bedroom upstairs.

'I was awake as you were fast asleep... for the whole of three hours', he adds looking at his wristwatch. 'You can't seriously expect me to accept you keeping this up, John.'

'I was tired. I'm all done, now. Just a silly scar and another story to tell. Well, less than a story, for no one would believe it.' I shrug the thought away. My side twinges painfully. Why are we even talking about this?

'Mrs Hudson said you were sleeping well.'

'Mrs Hudson went upstairs? Why? Is she alright?'

'She's fine. She's under the impression, though, that you demanded garlic bread from that Italian place to be delivered to your room. She was the one who took it upstairs, for obvious reasons.'

I had noticed the odd offering, but not thought much about it. Sherlock can be quite eccentric when he assumes it's my birthday. The genius gets to do such things more than once a year; it has never tweaked with him that one only has the one birthday a year.

'So, silver and garlic keep off vampires? How does that make any sense?' I scrunch my face. He just shrugs, apologetically.

I sigh and take a careful seat by my friend's side, on the other armchair. He collects himself in a better groomed heap in his chair to allow me more leg room.

'You felt your control wean when I was asleep, Sherlock. To make sure you didn't do something you might regret, like going up and sucking me dry, you blocked yourself with garlic bread. Very clever. But wasn't Mrs Hudson a temptation as well?'

He nodded. 'Not as much as you, though.'

'Because I'm younger? Fitter? _Blonder?_ ' I hazard guesses.

'Because, in your endless generosity, you would forgive me, John. My restraint is diminishing, what if one day I can't keep my promise and I bite you in your sleep?'

With the thick curtains over the windows and Sherlock's insomniac personality trait, there's no time of day when I could fall asleep in the certainty that I wouldn't be a temptation to the vampire in Sherlock. I'm already sleep-deprived and exhausted, even if I put up a fight I wouldn't win over the thirsty beast that lives in my friend. As time goes by Sherlock is holding on to his control by a thread. He doesn't want to drink me dry. He promised me so, and he meant it. But soon he may not have enough self-determination to keep his promise.

I get up, slowly.

'Where are you going?' he asks quickly, an edge of barely concealed panic in his voice.

'To take that cat down to Mrs H. The client can collect it from her.'

'Are you coming back?' he asks, as dispassionately as he can muster, which isn't much at all, and with a slight tremble of his lower lip.

I smile softly. 'Of course I am, Sherlock. You couldn't ever keep me away.'

 _ **.**_

 ** _TBC_**


	99. Chapter 99

_A/N: Still not British, a writer or a vampire. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.Vampire Sherlock - part seven.**_

As a doctor I'm very concerned about my friend. After all, he's got virtually no pulse and his skin is ghastly pale. I'll keep him from the A&E, the electric shocks and adrenaline shots, though. These are common side effects of his vampirism, of course. And it's not all grim. There are perks to his condition. Ordinary rules of basic human functioning as we know them are distorted. He just solved a case for the Yard by diving deeply into the Thames and finding on the bottom of the river the discarded murder weapon; a collector's musket. Sherlock only pulled it through, with effortless grace, because he alone out of all of us could withstand up to five minutes under water without resurfacing for air. I'd worry about the pathogens on the murky water, only as a vampire Sherlock is immune to them. After all, he's by definition undead, he can't even catch a common cold. My medical degree did not prepare me for this.

The Baker Street detective also saved a life, yesterday, when at a scene of a car crash (caused by the getaway car of a bank robber we were chasing) he pushed aside the firemen crew with heavy duty machine prying helplessly at the amalgamated metal wreck of a car and just yanked off the solid barrier keeping the crash victim inside. She was taken to hospital by ambulance and is expected to make a full recovery in time. The firemen were left speechless and Mycroft will make sure they don't talk.

Sherlock being the busy hero, I've been keeping a close eye on my moon-stimulated hyperactive friend for signs of exhaustion. It's harder to tell at his current state, after all.

It was only as I saw him borrowing one of my wool jumpers – this time I had actually told him he could – that I got that deep unsettled cold in my stomach. Vainly I hoped he was wanting to mess with me, but I realised he wasn't. Sherlock was feeling cold, and was as gelid as a corpse.

I made him nice warm tea, had him sit down with a blanket wrapped around him, and I'm keeping an eye out for signs of hypothermia, or any other medically relevant diagnosis I can actually address.

 _Only he's near undead, and my medicine doesn't work for the undead._

We must reverse the course of this ailment before it's too late.

'You want to find the vampire and kill him with your bare hands', Sherlock reads me with ease, between sips of the fragrant tea emanating swirls of mist from its surface. 'I can tell by the way you keep flexing your fingers and that bulgeing vein on your neck. You really need to mind your blood pressure, John.' Sherlock is shivering now, but I don't think he's noticed this himself yet. I get up to smarten the logs in the fireplace with a poke.

'I'm not picky. I can also use my gun, for instance', I notice sensibly.

Sherlock smirks, full of complicity.

'What if time runs out? What if I stay like this?'

I glance at my friend. _What is the question?_ Does he ask me for advice, understanding, solidarity?

'That won't happen, mate', I vow.

'You can't be sure of that, John. Will you – stay – solve cases with me – all the same?'

My brow drops in utter sadness, that his life experience may have led him to believe people who care about him leave when the going gets tough. I hope I have never give him reason to believe I'd leave my best mate behind just because of his... _condition_. Sherlock's my best friend. Not even a little undeath can come between us.

'Nothing changes, Sherlock.'

He sips his tea quietly. We both know it's a white lie. But he gets what I really mean; our friendship could never be tainted on account of this.

 _ **.**_

Soon rumours start circulating about my best friend. They are not more imaginative than they've always been, but this time the rumours seem to be harder to shake off. Because they are closer to the truth, I guess.

No one voices Sherlock might be a vampire, but they latch on to his vampire characteristics and push our understanding to the limit.

They culminate at this active crime scene, where Sherlock has just picked up a rigged to explode complex bomb and threw it halfway across an abandoned, empty, riverside factory, so the device would fall on to the Thames beyond the broken window. We expected the water to dampen some of the inevitable blast – powerful enough to wipe out a few blocks around us – but in fact the bomb got waterlogged and failed to detonate.

Greg just turned slowly, reflexively, to the mad detective that had just swung a bomb almost 50 meters away from us.

'And _how_ did you do that?' the inspector asked, bewildered.

Sherlock just shrugged and walked off. 'Been going to the gym. You should try that some day, Lestrade.'

Greg won't be fooled. He dismisses his team quietly from around us, then turns to me, intense and, most of all, worried.

'John, how did he manage to do that? There's no one I know who could do that.'

I shrug. I can tell he's not convinced. Maybe I really am the worse liar. 'He saved our lives, Greg.'

'Yeah, but _how_?'

I sigh. From far away, Sherlock dismissively states: 'You can tell him, John', just before the factory door closes on him walking away. _Ta, mate!_

Gulping drily, I start: 'Have you ever heard of vampires, Greg?'

'Yes.' Then it dawns on him. 'No.'

'Yeah', I agree, with commiseration.

'Sherlock is a vampire?' Greg repeats, his stunned voice barely audible. I nod apologetically. The DI ponders: 'For once, it actually makes a lot of sense. The poshness, the paleness, the love of gory crime scenes, even the upturned coat collar... Does he have fangs? I think I would have noticed that!'

I shake my head at once. 'Hang on! Sherlock has only been a vampire for a week! Are you saying he always looked like one?'

Greg shrugs. 'He's Sherlock. He's not like the rest of us, innit?'

This is mad, I'm sure, but I persist:

'You're not upset I didn't tell you before?'

He smiles softly, fatherly even.

'Not when it's you two, mate. You've always been thick as thieves, from day one. You've been closer to Sherlock than I ever managed to get, and I met him before the "high functioning" consulting detective persona. But I won't tell my secrets. I'm just glad you two clicked so well together, Sherlock needed someone like you in his life.'

I'm feeling awkward. I'm sure I'm the one who owes a lot to Sherlock Holmes, so I joke: 'Because I taught him how to make a half-decent cuppa?'

'Does he know how, then? Never makes me one! No, John. Because... let's just remind ourselves of how easily you accepted that your flatmate is a vampire and shouldered that burden with him.'

I'm sure I just did what a friend is supposed to do.

 _ **.**_

'Sherlock, what's with all the wax drippings on the floorboards? Mrs Hudson won't be pleased!'

'Boring!' the detective classified my considerations.

I come in fully to the living room, abandoning the supermarket carrier bags, full of groceries, at the door. There are candles lit over just about every horizontal surface in the living room.

'Did we miss another electric bill?' I frown at the state of the place, taking some lost steps about.

Sherlock follows my movement with a despondent look on his harrowed expression.

'No, you take care of those menial details adequately, John. The electrics supplier seems sufficiently pleased with your zealous care in paying the bills.'

Slowly, I'm navigating through 221B's living room, turned eerie stage of a high school's vampire play performance.

The small side table by my armchair has got half a dozen tall candles burning on it; at least two spilling pools of melted wax over my reading book and one more nestled inside my latest tea mug.

'Someone has to pay the bills', I comment distractedly.

'Always so eager to play the responsible adult, John', my friend teases me.

I keep pacing about, nearing the fireplace now. Tea lights are lined over the mantel piece, echoing the row of assorted candles on the jumbled logs inside the fireplace. At least in there the fire brigade shouldn't frown upon heavily! But it's Sherlock's pet skull that beckons for my attention. It looks really silly. No, I don't mean the candle stuck on top of the cranium or the wax dribbling over the temples like a shaggy wig. It looks silly because Sherlock adjusted white plastic fangs over the top mandibular piece. Vampire skull now, it seems.

I notice at last that I'm being observed by twinkly, bemused eyes, as I turn around facing the living room again.

'How did you plan on having clients sitting here?' I ask, pointing at the candles burning over the seats of the hardback chairs.

Sherlock assumes an indifferent pose. 'Not my concern. Must I do it all? Are the clients that come for us all that helpless?'

I deflate. 'What is this all about?' I ask with a long suffering sigh. 'Sherlock, are you trying to carbon monoxide poison yourself? There are dozens of candles in here!'

'There aren't any more lit candles in the flat, John. One mustn't leave them unattended, it's not safe.'

I groan under my breath. Sherlock adds: 'Maybe I just like the atmosphere, John.'

'Yeah, it's more romantic', I quip sarcastically, taking a seat in my armchair. 'Seriously, Sherlock, what's the big idea?'

'Are you jealous?' he asks playfully.

'What?' I frown. He shrugs.

'I'm trying to create an impression, and not to you. Jealous much?'

I blink. 'You try to impress me? Really?'

He takes easy offense on my remark. 'Don't be so pedantic, John.'

'No, I mean it', I interrupt, smirking. 'You try to impress me? That's a waste of time!'

He seems to gulp dry but admits: 'Been finding it hard of late.'

'No, it's the other way around, Sherlock.'

'John?'

'I'm always impressed by you, no need to go around changing the living room's decor to a Victorian Christmas theme, mate!'

He blinks, then finally shakes his shaggy curls as if to chase away some remnant thought refusing to stay inside his mind palace. 'No, John, you are a mere by-product of my efforts today, a useful barometer all the same. I'm hosting a gathering of sorts, John.'

'Nice. The gang?'

'No one you would know, John.'

'Who are these friends then? Can I meet them?'

He despises my choice of word at once. _Friends._ Sherlock is very economical with the use of that word, yet he'll use it abundantly about me, even to absolute strangers. _I'm Sherlock's exception._

'Vampires?' it's the easy guess. He nods. 'Good guys?' He shrugs at that characterisation. _So, not malevolent per se; possibly neutral or indifferent._ 'Londoners?' Sherlock nods. 'You found them through your website or your network?' He nods, still laconic. _Wow, I feel a bit left out, missing a set of fangs myself. Like the only kid in town without the novelty toy._ 'And... You want me out of the way?' I realise at last I'm suddenly the inconvenient flatmate.

'Preferably.'

 _Oh, that's... not a nice feeling._ I get up from my chair and turn to go to the kitchen. It's a labyrinth trail along hot wax pools and lit wicks just to reach the kettle. I shake my left hand that feels a bit empty, as if I didn't know what to do with myself without tea.

'Then I'll be in my room, shall I?'

'No', he stares, adamant. I do a double take on my imperious flatmate. He reminds me: 'You brought a fair share of girlfriends over, John, and I kept away – most of the time – it's no different now.'

I frown. 'You never kept your distance. You showed up with carried bags full of human ears or I found you dissecting a rat!'

'Better not sustain a lie about your living quarters, John. Your girlfriends usually appreciated me telling them I had dissolved a spleen with sulphuric acid over their dinner plates, even if they were shocked. Anyone with half a brain would hazard that as a possibility upon entering a strange dwelling and accepting to have a romantic dinner date in it.'

I'm about to protest – loudly – when the doorbell rings downstairs.

'Mrs Hudson will get it', Sherlock comments, lazily.

I open my eyes wide. _Vampires_. Mrs Hudson is in danger. I rush downstairs to make sure Mrs H is not at risk of becoming undead, Sherlock still yells after me:

'Don't hurry back, John!'

As I reach the last of those seventeen steps, our landlady is quietly holding the front door open. She's got on a nice two piece suit in aubergine and an expensive looking shrug settled on her shoulders. She smiles at me. 'Ready, John? Our taxi is here, dear. Sherlock's treat. Dinner and a theatre play while he entertains his mysterious guests... Aren't you a bit underdressed, John? Well, never mind now. You're my glamorous date and we'll look a million dollars together!' She beckons me nearer and takes my arm. I can't help but smile at her joyous good humour. 'Good night, dear!' she still yells to Sherlock, upstairs.

'Don't come back too soon', our mad friend answers from the top of the landing; he was spying on us.

Mrs Hudson confides to me as I close the front door behind me and we step into the cold night. 'You mustn't worry, John. Sherlock isn't serious about his new vampire friends.'

I blink. _Why is everyone assuming I'm jealous?_

'Wait! You know about the vampires? You know about Sherlock too?'

Our landlady shakes her head in sweet admonishment and pats my arm, interlocked in hers. 'I'm old, John, but not senile. I didn't need to be a detective, with all those blood drops on the floor all the time, and the bats taking up my attic.'

'But—'

'And I know how to keep a secret', she adds, taking an outstretched finger to her lips. We're on the streets now. Can't talk it over here. Mrs H is a pro, nothing ever phases her.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	100. Chapter 100

_A/N: Huh huh; made it to a hundred. Again. I'm a bit puzzled how it happened, to be honest. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_ ** _Vampire Sherlock - part eight._**

Sherlock should never know. I'd be mortified if he found out, in fact. The over rational epitome of flatmates would surely misinterpret it all too, adding to the awkwardness of the whole debacle. So in short, this is absolutely, positively, insurmountably the wrong course of action.

But something invisible in the magnetic air of a night where the moon shines bright and engorged above London's skyline casts a spell on me as well. Pulling me home, to Baker Street, where I urge to check on my friend – all alone among vampires of unknown affiliation.

Yes, Sherlock is a vampire too. But he's a newbie, and a good hearted creature of the night. What manipulative and violent behaviour might these predatory beings inflict on my impressionable friend in search of belonging, I dread to think.

Reaching 221's front door presently, I hesitate. I wouldn't want Sherlock to deduce that I didn't trust him and his new friends. I wouldn't want him to believe I was trying to control him, and his choices in any way.

Exhausted, conflicted, I look up to the familiar living room window panes. The warm glow of the candles within lights up the room. Faint murmur of excited chatter and good humour drifts from the air above, and even the melodious strings of a violin (Sherlock is really intent on impressing his guests or needs a minute's exercise in grounding himself); unless I'm overworking my imagination now, bringing to the forefront my fears.

 _Sherlock might enjoy being a vampire too much, and refuse to return to human form._

Lost steps over the pavement, back and forth, as I remain indecisive over what to do. Exhausted, I run trembling fingers through my short hair, repeating the action over and over again in the hope that the mechanic movement might ground me with its constancy of result.

By the time I take a seat on the front door step by the closed front door, my hair must look like a disarrayed, shaggy mess. I dwell very little on that.

The guys from the cafe are closing the place down. It's late, but not so late that I need to go back to the theatre where I left our landlady, having done a runner during interval.

 _I don't think she was surprised, though._

The idiot from the cafe smirks as he grabs the last chair to lock it inside the establishment. I realise that to him I'm the dejected flatmate, the jealous sort that got kicked out of the party upstairs.

I just want to have a word with Sherlock's friends, make sure they are alright – "no Jim Moriartys here, that's alright, carry on!" – and leave before I'm even noticed. Surely it can be done, right?

Animated by my decision, as if I had been evading it all night and now experienced a feeling of relief for taking the decided course of action, I set forth. Don't even need to pick the front door lock as I conveniently have the key, I realise with relief. Maybe Sherlock is right; I'm not the _greatest_ thief.

The hallway feels damp and dark as I step in. I stop myself from switching on the electric lights in the last instant. _Undercover, John._ Feels wrong to step inside Home as an intruder. Soon my eyes adjust to the lack of bright light and I'm able to discern new objects. Long cloaks hanging neatly by the door, a couple of walking sticks (why does a superhuman vampire need aid with his walking?), and – is it really? – a long thin sword sheathed in smooth leather, just parked with the coats.

That impresses me more than it ought to. I can't but help reaching forward a tentative finger to the small portion of glistening metal, white and cold and pure as the moon that shines through the glass panel above the door, and scintillates ethereally from the silken smooth surface of the weapon. No ordinary metal I could phantom would produce a weapon that could be this smooth, this shiny, this pure; it must be silver.

But what powerful vampire would carry a weapon made of the very thing that is poisonous to them?

Whoever he may be, he is much more powerful than Sherlock.

As my bewitched fingers are about to touch the exposed inch of the blade they yearn for, suddenly my arm is yanked back by vice-like fingers that claw around my arm. Before I can turn, I'm hastily dragged up to the living room, I couldn't even swear to have climbed up those familiar steps all on my own.

The vampire that exposed me throws me of-balance to the centre of the living room, and I collapse helpless against the rug. Unharmed, but incredibly undignified as well. One glance above me and I realise that I'm surrounded by an opaque wall of faces with pointy teeth.

'John?' It's Sherlock's voice that breaks the wolf pack mentality and immediately he finds his way to penetrate the human barrier too and comes help me up. Completely ignoring the saliva dribbling down the jaws of some of his guests. Vampire etiquette has nothing on human's, it seems.

'Hi. I'm John. I'm the flatmate.'

They turn and grumble, dispersing rapidly, at my introduction. Apparently you don't molest flatmates, at least without your fellow vampire's permission. Small blessings, I guess.

'He's the pet', one younger vampire explains to a half-deaf elder. I'm about to angrily deny that when Sherlock hisses at me:

'What are you doing here, John? You are ruining everything!'

I'm appreciative that he leans over to me in any case, as I feel better having him by my side among all these drooling vampires.

'Got worried', I mumble, too honestly.

'I'm fine as you can see. Time to return to Mrs Hudson, John!'

My adamant friend forcibly walks me off 221B.

 _ **.**_

Exhausted and having made sure Mrs Hudson was safely brought home, I decide to turn in early. I mount the steps voluntarily this time, eager even, so I can check on my friend.

I find the last worn down candles over the fireplace logs flickering out if their own accord, and the living room empty. Sherlock must have decided to retire early too. Hopefully he wasn't too cross with me, for my little stalking act.

I take a seat on my armchair and ponder those last flickers of light and Sherlock's situation alike.

 _Three temaining days until the full moon casts an eternal spell on Sherlock's condition, permanently transforming him into a vampire._

Time elapses beyond my notice. A chill from the windows starts getting to me, and at last I give up the useless vigil of my troubled thoughts. Before going upstairs, though, I go check on my vampire friend. Dawn was a while ago now. I assume Sherlock found it a good time to go rest in his coffin as usual.

I knock on his bedroom door softly, using my knuckles and little strength. No answer.

'Sherlock, I'm coming in', I give fair warning. More than my socially stunted flatmate would usually give me.

The room is cold and dusky. The veiled curtains flutter away from the open window peacefully. Suddenly something small screeches and hits my face. I swat it away; but immediately I get what it is, and it's only a small bat, getting the more distressed as it flaps its wings, circling the room.

It's also a shock when I realise there's more than one. My friend's room is akin to an old church belfry and there's even a bat hanging upside down from the ceiling light fixture.

'Sherlock!' I protest, angrily, but at once I deflate and sigh. It's useless. He's deep asleep. I can never wake him up when he needs his death-like sleep. My shoulders slump and I hide my face in my hand.

What has life in 221B become, and why am I so easily persuaded to go along with it?

My vampire flatmate keeps a horde of bats as pets. _Just another day in the life of 221B._

I check on Sherlock – deep asleep and oblivious to the external commotion – before returning to the kitchen, carefully closing the bedroom door behind me. Don't want the bats taking up my room upstairs next.

 ** _._**

Night time comes with the usual flurry of energy and dynamism that I come to associate with the friendly neighbourhood vampire once he's had his power nap.

Been telling Sherlock for years that better sleeping habits would benefit him! But would he listen?

'Sherlock?' Something tonight feels different; more desperate, more alive. The moon keeps filling, bright and clear in a cloudless sky. _Time is running out to save Sherlock_ , I keep in mind.

'He left a clue behind, John! How considerate of him!'

'Who?' I question, to persuade Sherlock to explain more.

'The old vampire we're chasing, John. Have you forgotten him already?'

I place my hand over my stomach in reflex. 'No, of course not', I assure, sternly. 'What clue? How did you realise that just now? Did you _dream_ of it? Do you have dreams when you are in your little death-like trance or do you just lie there waiting for sunset?'

'My, aren't you the inquiring mind tonight, John', he teases me. 'I had the most vivid like dream, a sort of an epiphany, John, and, no, I don't usually dream at all. In this dream, my subconscious mind pointed out to me the solution that had been within my reach all this time. We must see the owner of the store, John! The one who was so willing to give a job to a four hundred year old vampire who unexpectedly returned to London. He lives above the store, John, we must go pay him a house call!'

'Because he offered someone a job? Sherlock, the owner might not even be a vampire. The one who stabbed me was very knowledgeable of the trade, maybe he earned the job.'

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, as he waits for me to out on my jacket, as I'm doing, albeit slowly and carefully.

'We don't really eat or pay electric bills, why would we need a job? What if he didn't get the job at all? What if our escaped vampire killed the owner and took over?' the detective starts again as if no time had elapsed once I'm done.

'There are other ways of dealing with a bad job interview', I comment. 'Sherlock, this all sounds very fishy. What if it's some sort of elaborate trap?'

'John, the vampire could have killed me back on the store. He didn't. He knows who I am and can easily find out where I live. I posted that information online. He clearly wants something from me.'

'Yes, to mind mess you', I mutter under my breath. _It's Moriarty all over again, and Sherlock isn't even listening to me._

 ** _._**

'I really don't like this at all', I mutter, for what it's worth. If ever a feeling of bad omen has been present during an accursed case, _it's this time, here and tonight._

Sherlock, of course, pays me no mind. He is wiry and excited, as we burglar our way into the house of the coffin manufacturer.

'What are you expecting to find?' I bump into some coffee table or another piece of low furniture that almost knocks me over. 'We can't see a thing in the darkness and we probably have been overheard and—'

He interrupts my soliloquy, harshly: 'I can see and hear better than you can, John, stop wasting your breath and bumping into the furniture, it's very distracting.'

He can? Oh, he's a vampire now. It must come with enhanced senses.

'Look, Sherlock—' I persist. I stop short when Sherlock stills himself, most unnaturally. He's found something.

'The owner was innocent', he declares.

'Was?' I repeat. _Past tense._

'He's not much more than a mummy now. Hurry, John, we must leave at once!'

Why the sudden change of mind? Before I can ask, he grabs me and pushes me behind the sofa. 'Too late', he confides cryptically. 'Try not to breathe!'

Easier said than done. I hide my mouth and nose under my cupped hand. The master vampire must be around. Sherlock must have heard something I'm not equipped to follow. I strain as hard as I can, but feel a bit deaf for I cannot tell anything amiss.

Suddenly my squinted eyes pick up on a flurry of movement and colour, and I can feel the bold drafts the two opponents fight produces.

I want to help Sherlock, but how can I? Can't even tell what is going on!

A small strangled noise and my stomach clenches. _Sherlock!_ There is a loud thump and suddenly the flat's door is left open to the cold night air.

'Sherlock!' I call out, coming out of hiding and desperate to make out my friend in the shadows, caution be damned.

'He's gone', Sherlock mutters, under pained gasps. 'It was worth it, though. I got a good look at him, I think I know how to confront him next.'

'You're hurt!' is all I care about.

'Very perceptive, John. You honour your profession.' He coughs, in choked little gasps.

'It's not a time to make light of your injuries, damn it!' I reach over to an overturn lamp and click it on. As the room comes to focus I see Sherlock fallen on the wooden floor with a nasty wound in the stomach.

Our vampire nemesis is fond of stabbing people who cross his path.

Sherlock gasps painfully. I put pressure on his wound, hands shaking and wrestling my head to control.

'I won't let you die, Sherlock', I state in a tremulous voice, as I'm kneeling by my friend's prostrate body.

His eyes flutter open, his nostrils flare (is he sniffing me? maybe he's too dizzy to see properly) and finally he tilts his head my way.

'I'm undead, I'm not sure what practical difference it makes, John.'

'Shush it!' I tell at him. 'You're alive and we both know it. There is still time to break this awful curse.' He nods at last.

'It doesn't really pay to be a vampire', Sherlock groans.

'No, I guess not', I agree, while trying to make him more comfortable. I roll my jacket into a shapeless mass and slide it under his head, pillowing it. He blinks, as if conveying thankfulness. 'So, why aren't you healing already? Sherlock, your wounds have the power to heal themselves, so what is happening here?'

'Silver, John, is my kryptonite. I can't close this wound. But you can help. You're a doctor.'

I nod, and hastily gather first aid medical supplies from my pockets. He sighs, closing his eyes.

'This isn't going to work', I realise at once that I'm fighting a losing battle with time. 'You have lost too much blood already. You are about to go into shock... _Here!_ ' I shout and shove my wrist over his cold lips.

He blinks, confused, but his instinct calls for those pearly white fangs to protrude, coming to meet my rapid pulse. Sherlock's gaze focuses on my face, with clear green eyes full of concern.

'I promised you—' he struggles to say.

'I'm relieving you of that promise. In fact, I'm ordering you to take a good sip. Can you stop before you drain me out?' _My fate is in your hands. I keep full trust in Sherlock Holmes._

He nods. 'I've been practising.'

'Sherlock!'

'On blood oranges, John. Just citrus fruits.'

'Well, I'm hoping to be a bit tastier.' I scrunch my face in anticipation and plead: 'Go on, Sherlock, bite me.'

The first feeling is like a prick of a needle and my wrist tingles as the blood flows over my skin. Soon his contact loses the original shyness and he latches on to the offering with reverence. I feel faint as the blood rushes out of me and into him. A strong hand comes to hold me up as I sway on the spot. Still it goes on. I'm feeling cold, the world is rushing like white noise between my ears, my hope is that Sherlock won't go too far, but that it can also be enough to contravene the poisonous silver and close his wound, that I can save his life.

Strong hands envelop my frame and then, ever so gently, I feel myself going higher, raised above the ground, floating in a world of dreams and disembodied blurred shapes. I think I can hear someone calling my name. I hum, and that takes all my strengths to muster, so I start falling asleep. My vampire friend will take care of anything out there. I know I can trust him now, as I did before becoming his... food.

My head lolls against his clavicle, hitting it hard. I yelp and he shushes me patiently. Still the same feeling of floating about. I think he's carrying me in his strong arms. I think the wind on my face is from his race across London's backyards and alleys. There are moments of ethereal freeze in gravity, but that would mean incredible, superhuman jumps, perhaps across rooftops. There's a snap of wood and the sound of a window sliding open. Moments later, my exhausted body is deposited on a comfortable bed, in vaguely familiar surroundings. _Home._ The sound of a chair dragging over the floorboards and I know my friend is determined to keep a close watch over me. I allow myself to fall deeper into a repairing sleep at last.

 ** _._**

 ** _TBC_**


	101. Chapter 101

_A/N: Apologies for the delay. One more after this one._ _-csf_

* * *

 _ **.Vampire Sherlock - part nine.**_

'Hello, John.'

Through blurry eyes I focus on my friend, sat at my bedside with creased clothes and tousled curls. He's usually so careful about his pristine looks and I instinctively wonder what else could have harnessed all his attention. He's just sitting there, on a familiar straight back chair, steadily watching me.

What has he done now? He's usually only this quiet when he's brooding over some perceived offense, or he's about to own up to some incredibly stupid and haphazard mischief.

He reaches over to grab my slackened fingers over the blanket that covers me, I frown. Slowly it's coming back to me. I can feel the hesitation on my friend's gentle grasp as he misread my reaction.

 _Sherlock is temporarily a vampire, and I've insisted on a necessary and voluntary blood donation. Nothing more._

I don't regret it for an instant; but I feel so worn out that I could swear to an evil streak to my inanimate mattress, swallowing me whole, slowly digesting me to its warm enthrals.

 _Maybe a bit less thirst next time, Sherlock?_ Not that any of this is to be a permanent setback. A few days' rest and I'll be back to normal.

Sherlock keeps eyeing me with intensity, though. His hand has wrapped itself around my wrist, still gentle but also obstinate in touch. _Hope he's not mentally counting down the hours to another feed._ I squint at my mate _._

'John.'

His quiet enunciation of my name derails my doubts at once. This is still Sherlock, my mad friend. I keep my trust in him.

'John?' Sherlock's voice is but an insistent whisper. I look up to his light green eyes, ever trailed on me.

'Sherlock, shut up, I'm trying to get some sleep', I finally blurt out.

'Sleep is boring', he quips back with a brief smile. I smile too.

From my cocoon of comfort I try to inspect my friend's general posture, his appearance, his movements. He keeps himself annoyingly closed off to my deductions. He still breathes, is all I gather – but faintly, for he is almost completely transformed into one of the undead ones.

 _Must have worked._ Sherlock must be healed, I conclude, for he looks strong enough. He made it. We made it.

'How did we get here?' I ask, trailing my eyes about my room at Baker Street.

'I carried you here, John. You were clearly not in a fit state to make an independent return.' He presses his lips thin and looks away.

'It's all a bit blurry in my memory, Sherlock. It felt like a dream, where there were rooftops and we seemed to be racing through London.'

'You seem to have been more awake than I gave you credit for.'

'Were we being chased?' I try to make sense.

'No.' A faint blush tints his cheeks. 'I was, however, feeling instinctively protective and wanted to bring you to safety at once. It must be some strange phenomena, a side effect of your blood in me.'

I snort at that. 'Did you jump from rooftop to rooftop? Or did I imagine it?'

'Maybe', he as good as admits it.

'Wow! Didn't know you could do that.'

'Neither did I. But at the moment it felt right. Like I said, your misguided influence, surely.'

'Can all vampires do that?'

'Usually only very powerful ones', he tells me, in full disclosure now. 'My guess is that your selfless act of donation enhanced the effect of your blood in me. But there's little to no research backing me up on that account, John.'

'Molly's blood bags were donations...'

'Willing but not in full knowledge. Further study is required.'

Tiredly I remove my hand from his grasp and cross my arms firmly. 'No. Not any time soon. Don't get any ideas and don't you go getting yourself in trouble's way either, Sherlock. I know how tempting it must be to keep up your superpowers and have me as a side dish when you're peckish—'

The friendly vampire stops me short. 'Tempting, yes. Addictive, for sure. But not my choice. I assure you I don't revel in being your parasitic flatmate.'

I shake my head, releasing my arms. _I know._

Sherlock continues: 'I was right, of course. You are quite tasty, even better than I predicted.'

I protest without spite. 'Just drop it, Sherlock...'

'Definitely hints of tea, wool and gunpowder', he tells me in all seriousness.

I give him a dirty look and toss to turn on bed and get some more sleep. Finally I feel Sherlock is getting up to abandon the room. He's reassured I'll be alright after some rest. And he definitely needs a shower. It will revive him. So to speak.

.

It happened as the full moon neared ever closer, its bright binding spell clutching Sherlock like strings on a marionette. _I don't blame my friend._ I know it wasn't really him. Just a sort of empty shell of my best mate, acting in ways he would never. Sherlock has always been only protective of this old soldier. His protection has always been so steady, so reliable, that I took it for granted, focusing only on returning the generous gesture with equal and deep emotion. So when Sherlock—

The recollection keeps playing like a movie before my eyes. The film reel is broken and the mind's projector keeps throwing the same images onto the screen. They are burnt in my mind as deep as the red marks on my bruised skin. Sherlock, not himself already, had been tetchy all day. In the midst of an inevitable war of angry words, he suddenly grabbed me hard by the throat and backed me against the living room wall. I felt shocked, as I watched his fangs protrude, his visage was dark and almost unrecognizable. He leaned slowly and deliberately towards my neck, no last remnant of control in him. I gulped drily, calculating the speed and angle in which I could get him off. A pressure point over the trachea and his deep melodious voice would be scratchy for a good week. He'd let go of me, and I could run well away from Sherlock. _Run_. Was I going to run? Or would I trust him to know when to stop before bleeding me dry? Would I seriously refuse to become undead myself?

Sherlock froze in his approaching movement of his own accord, his eyes stilling as they caught on some hint of fear in mine. He blinked, looking at once anguished and torn, conscious at last of his actions. Coming to his senses. Just a flicker of the old Sherlock, confronting his vampire's instincts.

Suddenly Sherlock yanked my smaller frame to the floor, where I landed painfully, sliding a few feet away by the sheer force of it. I raised my head at once, dizzy. The living room was spinning and swaying. Sherlock was gone, no trace left of him but his blue scarf on the floorboards, in a messy, creased heap. Some rusty brown droplets of dried blood folded into the fabric.

Sherlock was gone for hours. His absence the more destroying as the time left to save him elapsed from our grasp inexorably. Neither I or his brother Mycroft could ever find Sherlock Holmes when he doesn't wish to be found, in normal circumstances, and these were dramatic hours. He seemed to have perfectly vanished from the face of the earth, self-banished himself from any land we could find. Finally, much to our relief and joy, the big brother Holmes expanded his search and found a trace of Sherlock in some underground bunker in Siberia. Even with superhuman prowess it must have taken my friend long hours, in an excruciating long walk (and occasional swim) to get that far. He might not have minded the effort much. He was a haunted man, running away from himself.

Mycroft just patched me through this rough satellite connection to his baby brother, and I clenched the phone at my end as I desperately started: 'Sherlock, can you hear me?' There was no answer but the howling wind on the other side. 'Sherlock, please.' I didn't know what to say. 'Come home', I whispered in the end. The connection got lost and only the continuous electronic beep of the end of a call remained. I clung on to that. I wouldn't disconnect that monotone sound, as if there was still a trace of Sherlock left in it.

One hour to sunrise, as I was dusting the fireplace (for the fifth time, one needs to keep busy at times of worry), revengefully catching the last remnants of soot, ash and dust, there was a small noise behind me, by the door.

I turned. It was Sherlock, standing in the middle of the living room. Home at last. He was breathless as if he had run a marathon – proving to me that he was still not all vampire. _But soon?_

Had he really run all the way back? At superhuman velocity?

'Tea?' The detective dared ask me, feigning nonchalance.

I nod. 'Welcome home.'

I turn towards the kitchen, but he hasn't yet moved an inch. In fact, he's in my way.

'John, I will make it up to you.'

I face him. I take no pleasure in pressing my best friend over apologies, but I gather courage to further harass him. 'Tell me where the master vampire is, Sherlock.'

'I don't know.' He looks insecure, hurt; for he thinks I'm doubting his intentions. I'm not. I'm pushing my best friend, unreasonably as it may be, _for only I know he works best under pressure._

'Deduce it then', I hiss, suddenly. 'You aren't that creature, Sherlock. Don't stay like that. If that full moon tonight comes and goes... I will lose my best friend forever. And then you may as well drink all of me.'

'Never, John.' He keeps tall, but a light tremble over his body makes me assume he's just barely succeeding in keeping himself together.

'You can't promise that, can you? The curse is too strong. We must break it.' _Can my words reach him still? Mean something?_ In his eyes I see as little recognition as if I had been speaking in tongues.

Finally he nods, slowly. 'I don't know what happened', he still mutters. 'All of a sudden I was under a forceful spell.'

I sigh. ' _He_ made you do it?'

Sherlock looks troubled, his rationality decrying his conclusions. I force myself to relax my tensed shoulders, my left is painfully tight, now. Mindlessly I kneed the torn muscle with my thumb. Sherlock watches my circular moves with full attention when he finally speaks. 'Some days I don't now whether I'm fully me or of I'm being his puppet on strings', he confesses, vulnerable. 'Except for solving crimes. That's just me. He just enjoys the crime scenes, he leaves me quite alone when I'm deducing. I think it bores him.'

'You feel his paranormal presence? He follows you into your mind palace?' I ask. Worried, alarmed, troubled.

'I've been avoiding my mind palace altogether, John. Some things must remain sacred. I've been trying to put up mental blocks.'

An idea worms in my regular type mind, and I ask my desolate friend: 'Can you reverse it? The mind spell or what is it? Can you _trace him_ just like he could find and manipulate you?'

Sherlock takes a sharp breath intake. With the incredible courage I know him to possess, he replies at last: 'It's dangerous, but I must try.'

I nod. 'I'm here, Sherlock. We're home.'

.

'Where's that vampire?' Greg asks casually as soon as he comes up 221B's stairs. He just lets himself in, these days. He's a seasoned officer, after all, and what we keep in clear sight up here is more than enough for him to get a warrant in multiple suspicion charges if he wanted to barge in officially, anyway.

I'm startled with the inspector's sudden approach, this time. Don't think I heard his usually heavy footsteps over the steps, or even those tell-tale creaking wooden steps he wouldn't have known to avoid. But here I find him, still shrugging off the remnants of sludge and snow from his muffled frame.

The snow storm raging outside has only just started to settle down, leaving our familiar city landscape carpeted in dirty snow and ice.

We've been keeping the heating blasting inside our Baker Street's quarters, worried Sherlock might succumb to hypothermia.

I turn to Sherlock. He's apparently oblivious to our visitor and keeps dead still on the sofa. He's been trying to communicate with the vampire whose blood runs deep in his veins, and alters him. He couldn't trace his whereabouts as we hoped, but he's been feeding him controlled information. Subliminally guiding the demon to our trap.

Sherlock just doesn't know for sure he's being listened or believed in his mind game bluff.

We're just the bystanders, Greg and I.

'How's he?' the inspector approaches me, thinking perhaps Sherlock is too focused on his task to keep to his super hearing. I answer regardless of who hears my frankness.

'Scared and brave. Physically, his breathing has diminished to one breath per minute, his body temperature is within moderate hypothermia and his heart rate is within cardiac arrest. Greg, we're losing him. This is our last chance to end this.'

Greg faces me now. 'You'll see. We got this! After tonight the bad vampire is not messing with Sherlock any more.'

I nod, because I feel that's what the inspector wants me to do.

'And the plan?' he asks, eyeing the brown paper wrapped box on the mantle piece. I go pick it up to show Greg what is kept inside our parcel.

'Vampires are susceptible to injury by silver weapons. Big brother Holmes sent us this antique silver knife for Sherlock to use on the vampire. It should be an uncomfortable proximity for Sherlock, but the only weapon that's sure to work on our enemy vampire and vanquish him.'

'Is it sharp enough?' Greg evaluates with reticence. I'm sure he's taking his gun just in any case. _That's alright, so am I._

I bring Greg to the kitchen and show him a decanter full of red liquid.

'Red wine?' he guesses.

'Blood. We need Sherlock at the top of his strengths. Unfortunately we overplayed our hand recently and I had to give blood to Sherlock. I'm just about recuperated but he still thinks it's too soon to go about more blood letting, and he refuses to have mine.'

The inspector points at the glass container with a queasy expression. 'So who did—'

'Blood bank. It's alright. It's for a good cause.'

'Any other precautions you've taken?' Greg resumes. He's starting to look impressed.

'Yeah. Here. Flower in your jacket lapel. It's wild garlic flower. It repels vampires.'

'Won't it repel our old boy Sherlock?'

'It will annoy him enough to assure me he won't suck your blood, but it won't turn him away. He's strong enough now.'

Greg scrunched his face at the innocent bunch of white flowers. 'Looks like I'm an extra in an eighties music video on MTV', he plays along good humouredly. A humourous smile plays on his face and soon he's lifting his hands to one side and another, mumbling the melody for Thriller.

I snort at that. Bless him, he can always cheer us up, old Greg Lestrade. He's got an indomitable kind heart.

Sherlock stirs, on the sofa. Perhaps I woke him with some sharper noise. He's carefully getting up to a sitting position, looking gloomy and reserved.

I look back at Greg. The gravity of our mission weighs heavily on our shoulders. It's time to rid Sherlock of his terrible curse.

It's our one and only chance.

 _ **.**_

Of course the dramatic diva couldn't help himself in chasing the stereotype. Or perhaps he was trying too hard to lure in a centuries old vampire by giving him a taste of the perfect setting to our final battle. Transylvania not readily available, Sherlock went for a dubious second best. An abandoned amusement park in the outskirts of London, where a Victorian Haunted House remains, boarded up by thick planks of wood Sherlock rips off with ease in front of our eyes. He's a bit earnest, in a hurry to lay his trap.

The hazy halo of snow light reflects around us, but the difficult conditions also keep potential witnesses at bay.

'I could use some vampires in the Yard', Greg comments, before the ease of the task for Sherlock.

'It's not all perks', the consulting detective warns our dazzled friend.

'You brought the silver dagger?' I ask, after a quick glance about us.

'John', he admonishes me. 'Super hearing, remember?'

 _Right_. We must keep quiet while on a vampire slaying mission. _Sorry, Sherlock. I'm new at this_.

Sherlock enters the old building ahead of us, I follow suit. Greg looks around and shivers despite himself. 'Lets get this over with, it's creepy in here', he beckons us. _I don't blame him._ All around us a carefully fabricated scenario of an old bedroom with a four poles bed and a frilled duvet, watchful painted eyes on anonymous canvas oil portraits on the walls and hanging chandeliers.

I glance at my phone to check the time. The full moon will peak at fifty one minutes past midnight. It's now midnight. We're cutting it fine.

We move along to a witch kitchen grove with magic potions bottled on shelves, a cauldron on a stove and strange things hanging from hooks on the wall.

Sherlock has the urge to look inside the cauldron as we pass. But we don't linger about. The genius takes us to the next room.

An old style library, and the lair of a mad scientist as well. Part lab, part scriptorium, I can sense Sherlock would feel at home here.

'What's this one?'

'Frankenstein', I identify, watching the glass retorts, round flasks and conical full of murky coloured liquids, around a metal slab table.

'What's up with all the old classics of literature references?' Greg protests under his breath. I glance at him, confused. _Yeah, I guess._

Sherlock demands us to take positions in the room, disguising ourselves behind the props. I'm not entirely sure on how he expects us to go unnoticed by the hyper senses of the most powerful vampire in London.

And then; _we wait_.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_

* * *

 _[2nd A/N] Nerdy comment: I wanted to use the real full moon's peak time in this story as the deadline for Sherlock's ultimate transformation. I previously stated it was snowing outside (see chpt. 92). There was a big snow storm in England at the end of last February, aptly called The Beast. So I found the next full moon, which happened at the 2nd of March. The moon then peaked at 00:51, UTC. On this day it was still quite snowy. Let's say the worse of the storm passed as John recuperated his strengths at 221B. (Note to self: It would have been easier to have amended chpt. 92.) -csf_


	102. Chapter 102

_A/N: Last part finally. Thank you for your patience, I didn't mean this story to be this long. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.Vampire Sherlock - part ten.**_

'You brought your little friends, I see. You're not _afraid_ of me, I hope.' The scanty words are pronounced with extreme derision and organically fill the badly lit theatrical room. We turn around at once. The evil vampire stands lazily at the door, eyeing us; and mostly Greg with intent. _I fancy he finds the inspector to be of his blood type preference._

At once, Greg and I stand closer to our vulnerable friend.

'You came', Sherlock says in a strange familiarity. I shiver on the spot.

'You called.' The beast seems to exude confidence and control over the whole scene.

Sherlock steps forward quietly, and gets close, too close, to the huge beast, and all my hairs stand on end. The hedonistic lifestyle being advertised by the head vampire is alluring like a sweet melody, and would have had Sherlock's full attention if we weren't also a factor in the equation. Sherlock and this mad creature could rule the world, quite happily I assure you, until some sort of disagreement might fall between them. London might not survive the chaos that would ensue.

'I'm afraid', Sherlock starts in clear words, 'that I decline your offer. More so, I'm here to stop you.'

 _Hmm, Sherlock? There's a plan, right? This is not a lyrical battle of wits alone, right?_

The vampire looms over the detective and recent vampire, and I feel a cold chill spreading in the abandoned room. 'You want to stop me? You don't really want to stop me. You can stand there and tell me you don't like this – the power, the freedom, no rules – all that in front of your friends there. But I can feel you, inside you yearn for this with all your strengths. I gave you more than my kind when I gave you my blood, you idiot!'

'You didn't give me, I took it', the detective corrects, smirking.

He laughs. 'Seriously? You beat me and I wouldn't ever have been able to stop you?'

The clear manipulation dawns on Sherlock and he gulps dry, hesitating in the slightest, but just enough for the perceptive vampire to spot it. Hesitation, vulnerability, a chance of victory.

'I gave you a chance _to be me_. And you were dying to take it.'

'No.' Our friend shakes his head, feverishly it'd seem.

'I hear you are a detective. Solving cases and chasing leads. How's that been going lately?'

Sherlock perks up at the abrupt change of topic. 'Been doing great, really.'

'Sharp mind, keen eye, quick reflexes?' the vampire guesses. Sherlock gulps drily. 'Yes, we the vampire kind have extraordinary gifts. You are one of us now, Mr Holmes. Would you be ready to give that up? Go back to being a slow, retarded, human being?'

There's only a hint of hesitation, once again, before Sherlock alleges: 'Of course I'd give it up. I've had enough.'

'Bet that strength, those little synapses tingling about in your brain, have been slowing down whenever you shy sway from your new nature. You can feel it, can't you? You have it all, as I gave it to you, but your stupid friend wants you to turn your back to your dream come true. To be as thick as him. "Don't consume human blood, Sherlock, don't drink me!"' he mimics my voice with derision, in a mockery of our friendship. 'Are you really prepared to give it all up? Be as slow and as agonisingly powerless as your human friends?'

Sherlock is being promised the equivalent of superpowers for his already extraordinary mind; a dream for the overachieving detective that made his extraordinary thought process his identity and livelihood. The master vampire urges my friend to choose between these great gifts and his ordinary friends.

I try to come up, say something, but the mad vampire just speeds forth to grab me and he pins me hard against the wall, so much so that I can almost hear my rib crack. Nausea comes over me and I dry swallow any word I meant to say with the bile rising up.

'Let go of John', Sherlock snarls. 'We were talking. Be civil. This has nothing to do with John.'

'I say it does. Give me your answer, Sherlock Holmes. Drink him, or be ready for me to finish you off. What will your choice be?'

Greg is still holding his position at the back of the room. He's watching us, like a dear in headlights. He soon catches up on the two vampires' shared history – Sherlock will freely admit Greg is one of the best of the Yard's lot; preferably Sherlock will admit it behind the DI's back – and he takes out his gun, pointing it steady at the vampire holding me with iron grip. Only we know it's useless against a vampire.

'Let go of John', he seconds. ' _Now_. And you are under arrest, too.'

I roll my eyes. _Yeah, Greg, sure thing!_

The vampire tightens his grip on my jumper and raises me a feet off the ground, still pressed against the wall. DI Lestrade faithfully presses the trigger. I can see the gun's recoil, hear the detonation blast, and feel the ripples of the small jerk the vampire has as the bullet pierces right through him. But the vampire just shrugs it off, and laughs maniacally.

We all remain quiet, in shock. Greg groans, defeated. He knows now he's no match to a powerful vampire, and he faces the prospect with some superstitious awe and fatalism. He drops the service gun.

I never knew Greg to be superstitious, and knowledgeable of this strange vampire world, but I guess it makes some sense, with all a careered detective inspector must have seen at work.

The vampire lets go of me, and I fall unaided on the harsh floor. As I look up, the evil vampire now has Greg on his grip lock, and shoves him on the opportune metal slab. The inspector looks pale and frightened as I've never seen him before. The evil vampire looms over him with a distorted mouth, shrivelled lips and sharp teeth. In disdain he grabs the wild garlic flower from Greg's outfit and tosses it on the floor, trampling it with his foot. He tells Sherlock:

'The moon is engorging in the sky. Can you feel it? It calls over creatures like us. You and I can still unite put powers, be an invincible team.'

Greg tries to pull away, but he's no match to the superhuman strength of his captor. Finally Greg deflates and stops squirming.

Something stirs in me, as I see Greg falter. Some strong drive to protect our poor friend, who is so quick to admit that associating with us can cause his downfall.

I must take control, keep the beast away from our friend's warm blood. He must not suffer a terrible destiny, be tainted for his association with us. All the times he's been there for us, must now energise me to better defend him with equal moral strength.

Greg focuses on me, after a long while staring at Sherlock, and from some good place deep inside him, he tries to liberate me from my guilt and duties alike, by telling me: 'Whatever happens, John, it's okay.'

The beast grabs him by the throat, keeping him from further speech. He forcibly tilts Greg's chin back, exposing his throat.

 _Yeah, Greg, I've lied like that too, once before. I know what it means._

'Sherlock', I call our friend. _What's the plan?_ I ask implicitly. Only Sherlock can sort this mess out now.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock steps forward in heavy steps. But still he won't take action. I wonder what on earth is wrong. How can our friend watch passively, allow Greg to become vampire food?

Suddenly the door to the small room is blasted open with a loud crack of wood. One by one, several of the vampires I met at Baker Street walk in, all sorts of dainty weapons in hand, all glistening silver in the dimly lit space.

Sherlock was buying time for the undead rescue team. _This is definitely a new one._

The evil vampire hisses and hurls Greg against the incoming vampires. Unaware of their affiliation, Greg doesn't look in the least appeased by the recent developments, as he's softly caught in strangers' arms. In a flurry of movement I am snatched up by the beast, and dragged at blinding speed to some other location.

I can just about hear Sherlock behind us in quick pursuit.

We end up in what appears to be a nearby – or distant, who knows? – church steeple, going by the heavy bell dominating the narrow space. The cold night air drafts around us, making me dizzy and cold. Snowflakes drift in from the open arches all around the bell, and gently drop on the vampire's dead cold hands as he pushes me against the balcony.

 _A church._ That's not playing fair. Sherlock can't handle churches.

 _But he sure tries._

Sherlock follows me to the church steeple, looking pityingly pale and shaky.

'I said _"This is between us"_ , now let go of John.'

The evil creature laughs. 'You surprise me. Didn't think you'd have it in you. Must be painful, the Faith consecrated about this place. None of the other vampires, more experienced as they may be, will dare to come up here.'

Sherlock gulps drily. I can hear pain manifested in his voice as he admits: 'You win.'

'Come closer', the vampire directs, magnanimous.

Sherlock approaches humbly. I can see under a sudden spell of moonlight that Sherlock's forehead is beaded with sweat and his fingers tremble like a leaf.

'You can have him', the enemy declares. 'But you know what for. John is to be your first, till death. Prove your loyalty to me. Obey me. It will give you the relief you need, the pain will go away.'

The head vampire lets go of me and I'd have collapsed down the open space under the bell, if Sherlock hadn't caught me in time. Gently he keeps me upright. Eyeing the master with a burning steady gaze, Sherlock extends his fangs, receding his bluish lips, and lowers his mouth to my neck. I close my eyes for a second, getting myself ready. Soon I open my eyes again. I know Sherlock is waiting for me to look ahead again. One last grace for a soldier. I know Sherlock wouldn't take advantage of me as I shy away like a frightened child. He has more respect for me than that. If I must meet my end, let it be in battle, with my eyes wide open.

Sherlock's sharp teeth cause my flesh to erupt in goose bumps, a couple of needle like pricks pierce my skin and then the warm liquid rushes forth. Right on my jugular. I take a deep breath, willing myself to keep my wits about for as long as I can.

The head vampire steps closer, enthralled. Maybe he sensed Sherlock's gentleness in the way he absorbed my blood. Sherlock pierces deeper and my knees falter. I'm shoved back against the wall and kept pinned there as Sherlock sucks harder. My vision blurs – my head swims with the odd thought that I'm a part of Sherlock now – and my heartbeats reverberating in my skull slow down drastically. I'm as cold as the snowflakes that cover me in ethereal peace. I close my eyes at last and Sherlock immediately releases me. I slide down to the wooden platform, where I remain, motionless.

The master vampire laughs, an evil echoing laughter, full of pleasure for my pain. Maybe he thinks Sherlock has finished me off; it must surely appear that way.

'I should have warned you, Mr Holmes, I never play fair.'

And then I see through blurry, barely open eyelids, that he rushes on Sherlock, to prey on him. Sherlock punches him with such force that the other flies across the small space, crashing against the church bell. The metallic noise is grotesque and blares in our ears rhythmically. My blood has energised Sherlock, has given him as much of a fighting chance as he can ever have.

'You don't get to touch John!' Sherlock growls possessively.

The evil vampire gets up and launches himself against Sherlock. They fight, quick and brutally. Territorially. The bell still rolls, among the commotion.

I can see the slightest hint of action as Sherlock reaches for his silver dagger, out of the waistband. The vampire is intently fighting my friend's insistent advances...

As Sherlock's hand tightens its grip on the hilt of the dagger, suddenly there's a huge hand splattered against the detective's neck, constricting his air flow. Sherlock's hand goes slack at once. The pressure over his trachea doesn't ease in the slightest.

Not on my watch. I get up in dizzy moves, and lurch forward; no plan of action, just desperate to free my friend. _He's suffocating._ It takes all my strengths to cross the distance between us, all the while the scene is eerily suspended in immobility. The head vampire let's me rush towards him in absolute calm and just as I near him, he throws an arm out; knocking me back on the ground so hard I almost lose consciousness due to my fragile state.

But that instant when his attention was focused solely on my incoming attack, that's when Sherlock stabbed him with the silver blade knife.

The vampire hisses and screeches so loud I can feel my eardrums pop. The howling sound harps for a while, not easing in the slightest.

The vampire is too strong, he won't yield to his slayer. He grabs Sherlock, to suck his blood and recuperate from his wound with new strength.

 _My turn_. I grasp my gun, raise it quickly to the target, press the trigger.

The beast staggers and falls; the collapse of a giant. He lets go of Sherlock, at last, and with no balance left, falls in the deep pit under the bell.

 _I mentally thank the good work of those jewellers that crafted a silver bullet for my gun, just before the world goes dark for me alone._

 _ **.**_

I come to, on solid ground. Greg is gently raising me from the snow covered ground, even if he doesn't seem too sure I'm up for it just yet.

Sherlock watches the scene unfold, from a stubborn distance.

A sudden idea and I fight Greg's hand to have a look at his wristwatch. It's almost one in the morning now.

Sherlock has missed the final transformation by minutes alone. We got rid of our haunting vampire in the nick of time.

But has his state regressed all the way back to ordinary humanity? Is he still a poisoned vampire in wait?

I look at Greg for answers. His eyes are trailed on the other side of the deserted church grounds. At a distance, a group of silhouettes has been watching us, and now disbands quietly. One of the elders, the hard hearing one, actually waves us goodbye.

I notice the inspector is not bent on chasing them for their vampire crimes. They must have bonded somehow, while Sherlock, the beast and I fought up on the church steeple.

Sherlock waves back and returns a worried gaze on me. Nothing but selfless concern in those clear green eyes now. I force myself up, holding my sore ribs.

Time to go home.

With my friends flanking me and trying their best to help me along, I glance up to the flighty glimpse of a full moon in the dark snow storm pregnant sky. The huge disk shone in brilliant white innocence over us.

'Lets share a cab back to London', I suggest. 'Oh, and hmm... could you... You wouldn't have a couple of tenners to lend me, Sherlock?'

He glances at me sideways, curiously. 'You just got paid from the surgery, John.'

 _Silver bullets are a bit of a budget breaker, mate._

'Well, I hmm... spent it already.' _Don't regret it either._

'Are you hungry?' he interrupts me briskly. 'I'm buying.'

Greg shakes his head. 'I need a sleep. A week long sleep if I can, should settle my nerves after all I've witnessed tonight.'

Sherlock doesn't look the least impressed. 'John?' He insists as if I had been his only guest from the beginning.

'Yeah, alright. Chinese?' I return.

'I don't think that quite cuts it today. You look starved.'

I stop short. _He's not joining in?_ The case is over. The head vampire is gone. Sherlock looks alive again. Can't he... _be human?_

He faces me and smirks gently. 'I'm positively starved too, John. Haven't had a proper meal in a while.'

'Let's get some food in you, by all means', I smile. We resume our walk, Sherlock slightly ahead of us, leading the way to the main road. He raises as arm, and in his usual magic trick, two free cabs soon happen to swing by and stop for him.

We see Greg off in the first, promising to gather the next day for all the brainwork still needed to puzzle the night's events together.

Sherlock and I take the second cab.

'So where are we going?' I ask as Sherlock closes the door by his side.

'Angelo's, of course. The man is a wreck since we stop dropping by.'

I smile, holding in a giggle.

 _ **.**_

'I've got the all-clear from my doctor, Lestrade. No more vampire in me', Sherlock reports cheerfully. I can hear their voices as I come up the stairs leading to 221B.

'No side effects?' Greg asks.

'None', the detective states assuredly. 'Apart from a slight caffeine addiction', he adds then. 'I seem to have become accustomed to a higher number of cups of tea per day. But if that made me peculiar, what would it make John?'

They both face me as I emerge at the living room door.

'Very quintessentially British', Greg answers with a smirk. 'What have you got there, John?'

'Our last test for Sherlock', I announce, walking over to our friend and depositing in his arms the furry creature that had been snuggled in my jumper, purring softly.

The kitten – still unclaimed by the neglectful client; Mrs Hudson has volunteered a home for him, he just needs a name – looks up, yawns with pointy teeth of his own while staring Sherlock down with green eyes, and finally settles in the detective's warm embrace, stretching out a back paw in lazy comfort.

The detective's expression is of the utmost softness, before he turns around with the flimsiest excuse so we can't see his delight. He may have forgotten the mirror above the fireplace, and that he's got a reflection now. His features have softened, as he heals from the harassing experience.

'No more vampire in Sherlock', I announce, convinced.

'And the other vampires?' the DI asks.

'In hiding', Sherlock says. 'Some cases you just can't solve', he sentences dramatically.

'And you, John, you're sure you didn't get any in you?' the inspector still checks, turning to me.

I frown. 'It's not a flu, Greg, you don't just catch vampirism from your infected flatmate.'

'I mean, if Sherlock got to solve cases faster, along with the incredible speed and strength that we knew of from books, think of what it could do for you, John!'

That hardly makes sense.

'A super doctor?' Sherlock cuts in. 'Ah, but how would John work the A&E with all the temptations? Still, there's always the hope that John would become a better writer. I keep having to intervene on his manuscripts...'

I give my best friends death stares.

'You're forgetting, Sherlock, that I saved the day with my gun, and I didn't require vampire boost to improve my aim.'

Greg acts like he's pondering it. 'He's got a point there, mate', he tells Sherlock.

'How about you, Greg?' My turn now. 'Wanna become a vampire DI?'

'Yeah, about that. How was Sherlock supposed to do bloody crime scenes when he was a vampire? Wasn't all the spilled blood a problem?'

We glance at the impervious detective, standing by the window with a snuggled cat in his arms.

'Only the smaller minds can't keep themselves from acting solely on impulse', he declares, coldly.

I rub my neck, over the jugular. I suppose I should be thankful.

Sherlock adds timely: 'And once in a while you've got to place the cat on the top shelf.' With a head nod he points at the bookshelves by my armchair.

I smile softly at the furry creature. 'Will Mrs Hudson keep him? He needs a name, you know?'

'Dracula?' Sherlock smirks. 'Seen his pointy teeth yet?'

'We can't keep him ourselves, Sherlock. You know that. We're hardly ever at home, and you keep your science chemicals all over the place...'

Sherlock shrugs. Greg is watching us silently, deeply amused.

'It's alright. I never close 221B's door. He can come up and visit us anytime. I'm sure you can donate him a jumper for him to sleep on, John, he shares with you your love of nestling in baggy jumpers.'

I cross my arms. 'Fine. He can also have your—'

I'm interrupted as Mrs H knocks at the open door. 'Am I interrupting you, boys? I hardly seem to come upstairs anymore; look at all that dust everywhere...' she laments in one single breath. I frown. _Hey, I've been dusting just yesterday!_ She carries on: 'Sherlock, dear, the client has come at last for the cat. What will you have me tell her?'

The four of us in the living room glance at each other.

'Some cases, Mrs Hudson, you just can't solve', we all say.

 _ **.**_


	103. Chapter 103

_A/N: Sorry to do this so soon after a snowy tale. Still not British, a writer, or anything but myself._ _-cs_ _f_

* * *

 _ **.**_

London has been sweltering under a heatwave. It sucks the energy out of any decent living human being, it makes the neighbours tetchy and it brings out from hiding the most twisted serial killers and kidnappers. It has affected 221B just in the same measure. The hot stale air hardly flutters the heavy draping curtains behind the now permanently opened windows at Baker Street. The traffic noise and combustion fumes just add that extra edge to our measure of insanity. It's been over two weeks now, and the heatwave shows no sign of easing any time soon.

Even Sherlock looks less than composed these days, back to his inside out, ratty t-shirt ways when at home. More than once, he didn't even bother putting trousers on. There's a sight for his endless fans, when he stands at the window playing his beloved violin with the strictness of training of a virtuoso musician. But Sherlock isn't too happy with his violin these days. He assures me the pitch in his strings has started to change minutely due to the constant heat. He keeps polishing and adjusting those strings, one by one, in an obsessive care for his musical instrument. The one he's been using sparingly to convey his communication these days, as the high temperatures seem to have muted the detective altogether.

 _I'd say he feels uncomfortable, and withdraws within himself because of it._

 _I don't know how to bring him out._

For my part my days are spent between extra shifts at work, to alleviate the surgery's surge inflow of patients (with an array of sun strokes, dehydrations, heart attacks, alcohol poisonings), or dozing off in my armchair back here.

I miss seeing Sherlock on his armchair, but I bet he has put it on a time out since it started sticking to every exposed skin surface, due to sweat. He's been taking a quiet seat over at the desk instead.

When I'm at home I tend to find a magazine or a book to read, and desperately cling onto it. Otherwise I may fall asleep and the heatwave seems to transport me easily to the sandy landscapes of war I'd rather leave behind me. Memories return sharp and violent as nightmares, and these days I'm constantly yawning, slightly sleep deprived.

 _We both look a bit gaunt and haunted these days, Sherlock and I._

So when I brought up a delivered package for my mad friend, a dark part of me hoped for a small diffusible bomb, a severed body part or a ransom demand for the eldest Holmes brother.

'Sherlock, you know it wouldn't kill you to give me a hand!' I snap at once. As usual he won't even bother answering.

He's standing by the window. Fully clothed today, his jacket is hanging from the back of one of the chairs. I guess his vanity won the battle over comfort today.

It doesn't escape me that standing by the window, Sherlock has spotted the delivery of the big clumsy parcel with his name on it, and he hasn't moved an inch yet.

'John', he finally acknowledges my presence in a lazy, trailing voice. 'Would you open and set that up?'

I blink, torn between the realisation that this has been the most words Sherlock has addressed anyone this week, and the eye roll for an authoritarian genius that takes my cooperation for granted.

'So, what is it?'

'You'll see.'

I grunt but tear at the package. Inside I find a tightly packed amalgamation of blue rubber film with an air valve. I glance at the detective and smirk.

'You didn't.'

'Of course I did.'

'But it's insane. It's mental. It's... _wickedly right!'_

In my hands I hold a kids' inflatable swimming pool. Family sized.

Sherlock allows a full warm smile, that has this layer of shyness to it, that just makes it the most honest expression ever to flow through Sherlock's face.

'We can't!' I still protest.

He rolls his eyes, still smiling, in complicity now. _He knows I'm soon to fold._

'It's not socially acceptable to have a swimming pool indoors?' he guesses, with a nervous shoulder shrug. His restless dark energy returning at once. I reconsider reflexively, wanting to keep him away from his dark moods. 'I wonder if there's a law or royal decree about it. And all those people going to gyms with indoors swimming pools, are they breaking _your_ law, John?'

'It's not the same, you know that.'

'I take it you don't want to refresh yourself.'

'Well, maybe—' I fleetingly look away.

'Go on. Join me. You'll be really sorry once you see me enjoying myself.'

I finally nod – _we're crazy, and I like it_ – and put the blue rubber pack on the floor, he's already moving the coffee table away.

'Are we seriously doing this?'

'Obvious.'

'What will the clients say? The Yarders? Mrs Hudson?' I still remind him. But Sherlock is walking off the living room, chasing some idea.

 _Great, now I'm the only mad one in here now, and I'm no longer so confident about all this._

'Refreshments and nibles in the fridge, John!' he keeps me engaged easily.

Sherlock returns with a hose pipe from the bathroom (I better not ask) and turns it on towards the small rubber island with intent. The first splatters hit the rug.

 _We are seriously doing this._

 _Can't wait._

'John', Sherlock starts lazily, left coat pocket, if you please.'

I frown and look about. Sherlock's coat has been hanging on the living room's door hanger for weeks now. I go forth and slip my hand on the coarse fabric. I take out an object nestled there. A fit of giggles racks my frame at once.

'John', Sherlock resumes imperiously. 'If you don't mind...'

'Sherlock, it's way too silly...'

'It is most essential, in fact. Just drop it, John!'

I shake my head and step forward to Sherlock and his filling up kids swimming pool. I drop the object I rescued out of Sherlock's coat pocket. A small and colourful rubber duck.

'Now your trousers pocket, as well.'

I slide my hand and take out an object I most certainly did not put there myself. 'How did you do that?' He's a pickpocketer of the best category.

He won't answer, but he sure looks smug. I throw the second rubber duck into the almost full swimming pool.

He smiles wickedly in approval.

'No more clients today, John!' he declares victoriously. 'We're on holidays.'

 _ **.**_


	104. Chapter 104

_A/N: New plot line. Still not sure what I'm making out of it, though. More to come. (Sorry it's small when compared to the lengthy chapters I've been posting.). -csf_

* * *

 _Your services are required,_

 _as is your inestimable presence._

 _Come soon. -SH_

 ** _1._**

Making my way back to Baker Street after my best friend's cryptic message _–_ and he hasn't bothered to reply to my contacts since _–_ I climb those seventeen steps, two at a time. One glance to the quiet living room, and I frown at once. No dangerous criminal about, no catatonic state client, no enigmatic message pieced together by drawing pins over the much abused wallpapered wall; not even a piece of decor (clutter) out of place.

'I don't get what the case – _your case, Sherlock –_ actually is', I confess as an opening bid.

'John?' My friend acts distracted, as if he didn't quite follow what I said – and he's not about to either. The detective is prostrated on the long sofa, idling about in quiet melancholy, except that he occasionally plucks discordantly the strings on his violin, lazily strewn over his chest like a blanket.

 _If that's some sort of secret Sherlock-language, as I've often suspected, I'm not equipped to understand it._

The detective is suddenly energised enough to corrects me: 'It's _our_ case, John. You are an integral part of the case.' There seems to be a sulky "you always are" muted at the end of that remark. What have I done now? I don't get it.

 _How can I be part of a case, if I'm not aware of it?_

I come to stand by the sofa. Impatient, tense. Once again I ask my friend, more incisively. Shoulders squared, tension on my knuckles, sharp captain-like voice.

'You told me to come back for a case, I assumed.'

'There was no need to hurry, really.' He flutters his hand in the air, dismissively.

'I was at a social gathering with the other doctors from the surgery. I had to tell them that my flatmate wanted me back at the flat because he had locked himself out.'

'If they believed such blatant lie, I fear for the future of the NHS. Any patient can lie about their symptoms and—'

I interrupt him at once, before he crusades on:

'Tell me _our_ case, Sherlock.'

He fleetingly looks away – seemingly shy, childlike – before returning his green innocent looking eyes to me and fessing up. 'You wouldn't really call it a case, John. It's more of... a sibling wager.'

'A bet, you mean?' I ask, voice breaking, lungs deflated like crushed paper bags. I pinch my nose and beg some much needed deity for mercy. 'You've made a bet with your brother dearest? What on earth did you bet on?' My voice subsides to an incredulous whisper, disbelief still tainting my idea of what the Holmes brothers assume to be... an okay thing to bet on.

Foreign powers may get overthrown, lives may be shattered, royal secrets will come to light; when these two play bets.

Sherlock's shoulders perform a brief shrug, as if by its brevity less accountable for honesty. I can tell he's intent on not telling me. As I expected, he presses his lips thin and evades all honest answers for the time being.

'We are both attempting to retrieve a lost royal item of the utmost importance, John.'

I squint at the fishy explanation. Some duchess' pearls? A crown jewel duplicate? A lost corgi? Sherlock doesn't care about his client's social status, it hardly matters to him if he gets paid for the services rendered (and I don't mean on the _pro bono_ cases, he takes on plenty of those, I mean from clients that can actually afford our rates as private investigators). My friend accepts cases based on their puzzling potential, not on the size of the client's bank account or tabloids portfolios.

'So Mycroft will also be taking the case?' I gather. I guess I'm on holidays as the faithful sidekick. But still... _Mycroft?_ He's got a deadly umbrella and a host of secret agents over me, yet... 'I thought your brother didn't do "legwork", Sherlock.'

The detective has pushed aside his violin and energetically he flings himself off the sofa and walks over to the mantel piece. He stops short, picking up the skull to check it absent-mindedly, then glances at the mirror above the mantel to reply, seemingly distractedly:

'We both get a player, John. I have not given you holidays.'

I close my eyes for a second. _Opposing teams, competing on a case solving spree._ This is so wrong. Somehow I find that I've crossed my arms in front of me. Whether I'm cold or angry I can't even say.

'I'm obviously your player, Sherlock. Who is Mycroft's?'

The younger Holmes shakes his head. 'I don't know', he answers, jittery, and I know it's true. Sherlock never takes kindly not knowing something. 'He picked that secret as a bonus for himself. I had a bonus too.'

'Hang on, Mycroft knows I'm your team player?'

'Naturally. What would be the point of making that the worst hidden secret of all times?' Sherlock rolls his eyes. I just smile. _Loyalty._

'Okay. What's your advantage?'

'Cleverness, speed, worldly knowledge, charm and good looks', he names dispassionately. I have to swallow a giggle.

'No, I mean what you chose for yourself.'

Sherlock looks a bit guilty all of a sudden. He answers meekly, almost to the buttons on his shirt. 'We get to contact each other every day. No, I don't mean to spy on him, John. That would be tremendous advantage and, quite frankly, it'd make it all boring. No, I want to know if my brother and his team player are alright. Well, don't tell my brother, but mostly him. Mummy asked me to keep an eye on Mycroft the last time over. So, you see, I'm actually bound by a promise, really. It's terribly inconvenient.'

I nod, feeling touched that the most sociopathic detective of London, or so he says, has a soft heart.

'Is your mother well?'

'Yes, she sends her love by the way', he tells me, stiffly.

'Please return mine.'

'Already did. It was right as rain.' He smiles.

'I guess.' I'm smiling too.

Sherlock takes a seat in his armchair. I turn to the kitchen – I always think better with a cup of tea in my hand – when I end up asking, turning back abruptly:

'Where are we going for this race type of bet? When do we start? Where do we start? What are we looking for, again? We must beat your smug brother, Sherlock!'

He nods, pleased.

'We start tonight, at midnight', my friend starts telling me.

'Why the delay?'

'Mycroft needs to engage his player yet. I assume it will take him longer than it took me with mine.'

I go for that tea, smiling away from his knowledge.

'Yours being an adrenaline seeking, retired army doctor, I suppose so', I mutter from the kitchen. Much to my surprise, Sherlock follows me over, as I work the kettle. His proximity just seems to underline the secretive nature of our new case.

'Two sugars, John.'

'Yes, I know... And, Sherlock, what is it we're really looking for?'

'Can only tell you at midnight, John. It's in the rules Mycroft and I agreed.'

I hand him his tea, and he swirls it with the spoon. 'You never play by the rules.'

'Of course I do', he tells the tea cup. Then he looks up – 'unless the rules are wrong.'

'But this time you'll wait till midnight?'

He nods, pensive. 'I want to win, over Mycroft and his mothballs riddled rules. I'll play by the book, because cheating would be too easy.' Again he glances up at me from the swirly murky liquid's surface. 'And, besides, both our players will insist on keeping us clean.'

I squint. 'I thought you said you didn't know who Mycroft's player was.'

He tilts his head, confidently. 'I can guess, though. Can't you, John?' I shake my head. 'Too bad. Perhaps I really am becoming a stickler for rules. Who would have seen that coming?' He idly walks off, theatrical as always. 'You should pack, John!' he tells me over his shoulder, I'm watching him go, amused.

'What weather should I pack for?' I ask after him.

'All of them, John! Expect the unexpected!'

My smile widens. The game is thrilling, when two genius brothers butt heads.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	105. Chapter 105

_A/N: There is no A/N. -csf_

* * *

 _Wind; northeast 3 or 4, occasionally 5 at first._

 _Weather; fair. Visibility; good._

 _Good winds favour our journey, John. -SH_

 _ **2.**_

Mrs Hudson is drawing close 221B's living room curtains as she reproaches softly: 'But John, what about the _real_ clients with the _real_ cases? Are you sure it's a good idea to go out gallivanting into some unknown adventure just to spite Sherlock's brother?'

'You don't think it's wise?' I perceive.

'Don't be silly. Who cares about wise? I mean Mycroft Holmes won't play fair, mind my words, and not mentioning how you and Sherlock will have to go and rescue his sorry excuse of a field detective every time he panics because his waistcoat lost a button!'

 _Sweet Mrs H, she's always Baker Street's no.1 supporter._

I smile along but diverge: 'Me, taking care of _two_ geniuses? Oh no, I'm only in his for the holidays, Mrs Hudson!'

She stops short of the last curtain and ponders me with a warm smile and knowing eyes. She shakes her head for appearances sake, but will indulge in her "my boys are back together again" sigh.

'Besides', I start over, collecting a few used mugs and cups littering the room, 'Mycroft has got his own team player. He's got the Commonwealth at his fingertips, he's bound to have found a partner in the top ranks of the MI5.'

'Whereas Sherlock has got the most loyal partner. It really isn't fair on his pompous big brother, is it?' She takes my side at once. I'm touched by her words. 'Mind you, it's about time Mycroft learns a thing or two about what a true friend will do for you, and that's something that no money, influence or blackmail can get you.'

I frown, a bit disturbed by our landlady's reading of Mycroft Holmes and his people skills.

'Aren't you running a bit late, dear?' she calls me back to the present moment. 'Don't you need to pack?'

I shrug. 'Won't take two minutes.'

'Your bags? Sure. But Sherlock's?' She tilts her head, doubtfully.

I groan. _Right_. I signed up to babysit a grownup genius that packs microscopes for clean shirts and snake venoms antidotes for socks.

 _I'm running late already, and I don't even know the particulars of the case yet._

 _ **.**_

When you've been a soldier long enough, packing for every scenario is no longer a daunting activity. You grab an old bag and throw in there the essentials: a couple of clean shirts, fresh underwear and socks, a book to read (when your travelling companion ignores you for talking to himself in his mind palace), a gun and spare ammunitions, and don't forget your phone and passport. All done. Zip up the bag – if it happens to have a zipper – and you return to the living room just as the clock strikes twelve and Sherlock is about to brief you on the mission.

'John', he starts, professorially, as I take a seat on my armchair. He remains standing, back absolutely straight, long suit lines all clean and crisp, as he gathers his breath for me.

'As I have already made you aware, John, Mycroft and I have a little bet going on. We're taking it quite seriously I assure you. To use comparisons that will be the more familiar to you, it's a bit like a race to solve a mystery, at the end of which we retrieve a rare object of great value and importance, and return it to a diplomat. That act, performed by the fastest of the two of us, determines the winner of the bet. There are no shortcuts possible and we are following leads on a lost object that History has managed to misplace in its annals. Mycroft and I selected this mystery for our betting purposes. I believe there is also a monetary reward associated with the delivery of the item (quite generous, in fact), but I assure you it has not moved me or my brother.'

'No, of course not', I mutter sarcastically. 'What difference could a few hundred pounds make to a Holmes anyway?'

Sherlock grimaced. 'Try _thousands_ of pounds, John, and don't be so mercenary. Our services are beyond the menial constraints of monetary transactions. I, for one, will never cash in a client's cheque.'

'No, you let me do that for you.'

He blinks. 'You do?' _Good grief, he looks serious._

I groan. He's got to be kidding me. He can't be this oblivious about ...grownup responsibilities.

Sherlock shrugs off the faux pas. 'The reward, by mutual agreement between the team leaders, is to be awarded to the recruited player of the winning team. I understand Mycroft could use some concrete incentive to allure his player, whereas mine...' he smirks at me, 'has a steadiness that can be relied upon.'

That's one very round about way to pay a compliment; I assume it proves its authenticity, coming from Sherlock.

'So I can potentially get rich?'

Sherlock looks taken aback. 'Surely you don't actually expect _Mycroft_ to win', he decries.

I know that it's all for show. Deep down, the two siblings are very fond of each other. _Very deep down._

'You once said Mycroft was smarter than you', I insist, to mess with my genius. I'd do the same to Mycroft, given half the chance.

'On occasion', Sherlock admits disgruntledly. 'He's also lazy, we mustn't forget that... But we're wasting our time, John! We cannot have that! You and I must depart for the airport at once, and from there to our first pit stop, where we will collect our introductory pack.' He grabs my jacket from the hangar behind the door and throws it my way.

'Introductory pack? Airport?' I repeat, I'm already putting my jacket on.

'There's little time to waste, John! I have accounted for every minute of our journey. We must be ahead of my brother every step of the way!'

 _ **.**_

'Where are we going?' I ask brusquely, already sharing a cab with the consulting detective. I keep my questions short and curt, to the point. _Only way to get any information out of my friend now._

'Lisbon. To start with, at least.'

'What's in Lisbon?'

We reproaches me with a severe look. Silly question. Not specific enough. Too many possibilities.

'And then?'

'Morocco. To get a Maltese falcon. '

He looks serious enough, I make sure to check.

'Hey, that's a film, you're pull in me on! Hang on, you _actually_ know it's a film?'

'Apparently so', he agrees magnanimously.

'Is it really a Maltese falcon, or do you just don't want to tell me yet?'

'The latter, which I find endlessly much more amusing, John.'

 _ **.**_

I frown at my fellow passenger in the claustrophobic flight. The flight attendants are closing the overhead compartments, prior to take off of this eighty tons metal beast.

'Sherlock, you are not meant to be using your phone!' I reproach the genius, to have him put it away. I switch off mine as an example of good practice.

He shrugs, sure that I won't snitch on him.

'Sherlock!' I hiss at him. He pouts, but complies at last. I shake my head, tiredly.

'I'm bored now. Wanna play battleship?' he asks me.

I sigh. 'Yeah, sure.'

'C5.'

Right. We have no board, and not even pen and paper. Sherlock's use of his mind palace is a contrived way to flaunt the rules of the game.

'You've hit my submarine. My turn. D2?'

'Miss.'

How long till he notices I'm not really keeping track?

'C4.'

'The explosive or the square?'

He smirks. 'Both.'

'Submarine again. F4?'

'Go fish.'

I giggle. What game are we playing now? He smiles, a happy, tranquil smiles that almost takes my breath away. I rarely see Sherlock this happy-go-lucky.

Maybe this travel adventure isn't going to be all that bad after all.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock has been eyeing me throughout the journey, as I take in the fast reverse relative motion of the landscape outside the train's window. Agricultural fields and industrial grounds for now. The same thing in any language.

Finally, it seems, out of nowhere Sherlock hums appreciatively and comments, feigning detachment: 'I have kept you tied down for far too long, John.'

'Sherlock?' I look straight at him, confused. He sustains my gaze with ease and familiarity.

'It's your nature to be on the move, John. Where others feel trapped inside a stuffy smelly train carriage, you are energised by the novelty, the speed, the distance; you feel free and connected.'

'Connected to what? This is all new to me, Sherlock.'

He looks away. 'The novelty serves you well. You look like you've lost ten years from your face and posture alone. Perhaps Mycroft was right.'

'Mycroft? What did your brother say about me?'

Sherlock faces me dead on, with intensity and mystery in his blue eyes. 'Oh, only that you'd enjoy this far more than any other of us.'

 _Oh_. I look on out of the window again. If two genius say so, who am I to put up a fight?

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	106. Chapter 106

_A/N:_ _I'm totally in love with this glimpse of an idea, where Sherlock would most certainly have a pocket microscope to carry out impromptu analysis in the field – and it reminds him of a pirate's telescope. One day, John hears him mutter "ahoy, matey, it's footprints I see!" John just turns away abruptly before Sherlock can notice his chuckles over the endearing genius. Sherlock just glares at his back, before relaxing his stance and chuckling along. ...I'm having a lousy week, where did all this mushiness come from? -csf_

* * *

 _The official language in Lisbon is Portuguese. -SH_

Sherlock, stop texting me. I'm right here!

 _Cars travel on the other side of the road. Do be mindful when crossing the road. -SH_

 _John, what did I tell you about minding the road? You are a walking zombie, with your eyes stuck on your phone! -SH_

 _Not an appropriate time for such foul language, John. You almost got run over by a car after all, a little bit of decorum wouldn't go amiss. -SH_

 _ **3.**_

The lively chatter of lost conversations, traffic noises and the fast pace of a bustling city are on plain display as Sherlock and I sit outside a small cafe. I've just ordered tea to a bilingual waiter and Sherlock waived him off as if the idea of consuming anything was an affront to his morals.

I tap my fingertips on the dainty cast iron table, and watch it wobble over the bicoloured cobble stones pavement.

'What are we doing here? I thought we were pressed for time', I urge my friend to disclose his plans.

He shrugs, indifferent. No, he won't fool me for a second. _This is already part of the plan._ I look around, suddenly suspicious, over my shoulder to the cafe and beyond to the street full of anonymous faces.

'Do try to be discreet', he decries with a sigh.

I grimace and frown at the same time. 'I am!'

The waiter returns with a shiny platter well balanced on his fingertips and swoons in with my cup and a small brown paper parcel for the detective. Sherlock waves him off. 'That will be all.'

He nods and leaves; I'm blankly staring at my tea. It's dismal and pale and sickening.

'Herbal tea', Sherlock comments. 'Next time order "black tea", that's code for proper tea. Coffee is the popular caffeinated choice for the locals.'

 _He couldn't have shared that piece of information before?_

Sherlock might have sensed my reaction, for he raises an imperious hand and the waiter returns in three seconds flat. It's him who defines the correct beverage for me. Trying to avoid World War Three, I assume.

'Now if you could focus on our Introductory Pack, John! The case starts for real', he proclaims with excitement.

 _ **.**_

'Well? Go on!' I urge my friend in a tight whisper. Suddenly we're leaning towards each other, the mysterious parcel between us. Sherlock's eyes are shinning with a sea green undertones, under the strong spell of sunshine. It's his long thin fingers that nimbly pull apart the home made parcel and reveal a small glass bottle, corked at the top, containing some thick liquid in a rich, deep red tone.

I shiver with the shock of surprise and horror. Is our mysterious sender some sort of deranged serial killer into exsanguinating his victims?

Sherlock tilts his head in thought, then in a quick burst of action he snatches the bottle from the table top and raises it in the air until he can see the sunlight flowing through the homogenous liquid. He lowers the bottle, violently twists the cap open – what the heck, Sherlock, you don't even know what vile substance is in there! – and dips a fingertip in the viscous liquid, then smudging it between his index and thumb.

I cringe. _Please don't lick it, Sherlock._ Health and safety, remember?

A smirk emerges on the detective's lips as he examines his fingertips. The genius is fully engaged, the plot thickens.

Sherlock is all beautiful magnetic energy and light, and as a bystander I marvel at my privileged insight into the genial deduction process. Hypothesis, facts, theories; all fly invisible before his mind, at top speed.

'Is it animal, vegetable or mineral?' he singsongs, like a child solving a riddle, probably just taunting me.

'We must take a sample to a lab', I realise.

'No need!' he cuts me off, removing something from the inner breast pocket of his jacket. A pocket microscope, I realise. That would be in addition to the two others I censured out of his travelling bag.

Sherlock smudges a slide as a rudimentary prep and puts it in place under the single objective. A few adjustments to the focus and he reports dutifully: 'Plant cells, slightly degraded by some sample preservation method. High purity sample. Definitely intriguing, not many plants will exude red—' he cuts himself shorts as if he's having an epiphany. ' _Dracaena draco_ , John! Oh, yes, surely it all fits, the rumours were true! We are going to Morocco yet. But, first, we need to collect our Ticket to the goods we'll hand over to the diplomat at the end of our quest! Once we secure the Ticket, we are way ahead of Mycroft!'

I frown, a bit disillusioned. _That's it? That easy?_ All this hype about travelling the world ahead of Mycroft and his high tech team, and we're winning just sitting in a cafe? I grump under my breath and look away, like a child who has been convinced to behave nicely for a Christmas treat and realised it's only summer yet. I feel a bit let down, I know it's not Sherlock's fault, but maybe I needed the holidays; well, this type of holidays, with my mate, sure to be unpredictable and adventurous. Now the promise of fun is over and—

'John!'

Sherlock's hand flies to my wrist in gentle warning, and with the other he executed some magician pass to make the little bottle disappear from prying eyes. Unfortunately, in his haste, his trick malfunctions, and a part of the bottle's contents spill onto the table. Sherlock hastily wipes it off with his jacket sleeve and reseals the vessel.

I'm looking about, not even bothering with being discreet now. 'Mycroft?'

Sherlock shakes his head briefly. 'Trouble... You did bring your gun?'

'Of course', I assure him. 'It's an essential, it's not like a spare microscope.'

I can see that smirk reappearing, but it has no time to fully form. Sherlock leaves some coins on the table and invites as if casually: 'Ready for a run?'

'Oh, yes!'

 _ **.**_

The sound of fast footsteps on the cobble stone pavement is reverberating in the narrow winding streets. The occasional yelp of someone who almost gets thrown out of balance by our swerving race, or that of the men in hot pursuit. An old lady watches raptly from a second storey balcony, white lace curtains fluttering behind her mischievous smile. She takes our side and points repeatedly at a narrow gap between two buildings further ahead, and then swears insults at the men on our trail. We obey the old lady and take a sharp turn to a vertiginously sloped street, punctuated by steps going down. There's a metal railing running down and I sneak onto its polished surface, taking a precarious seat, sliding down, allowing gravity to increase the speed. Sherlock is right behind me.

The first gunshots echo on the tile façades of the tall houses around us, in a terrifying manner. I flinch, even if rationally I know we're too far from our pursuers now for them to get a clean shot. Desperate measures that explicit shouts of terror and the few spectators about slam themselves behind the doors of homes and establishments.

The end of the railing and we jump back on the pavement with a bit of a stumble each, hurrying back to a quick jog, crossing unknown streets in a blur.

Sherlock insistently chooses some route by which he believes we won't get intercepted again, and we carry on, secure in the knowledge that our important clue is still in our possession.

But is it really?

Sherlock has spilled part of the viscous liquid on the cafe table. If the men that followed us return to the cafe they may yet find our exclusive lead splattered on the glossy metal surface of the table.

 _ **.**_

The melancholic wailing of the police emergency vehicles, summoned by our chase and shoot out scene, still echoes at a distance, as Sherlock and I keep adding yards to our escape. It's a waste of emergency resources, for I am sure that our pursuers were professional enough to have vanished without trace after they lost us.

 _Who were they?_ We're they after the same thing as us for an over popular diplomat? Where did they hear of this mystery begging to be solved?

I glance worryingly at Sherlock. This has upped the danger rating for both teams at a time when my friend fears for his brother's safety. Mycroft is not used to open violence situations. Not firsthand, at least. Even with a top agent acting as his personal bodyguard during this quest, it's bound to get risky for the eldest Holmes brother.

I'm, therefore, little surprised as Sherlock stops us by a payphone booth, and he shuts himself inside the claustrophobic space with too much enthusiasm.

I suppose no personal phones use is one of those ground rules agreed upon. Don't know why. The Holmes brother's just like to do things the hard way.

Sherlock is about to swallow some pride and use up his daily advantage bargain; contacting Mycroft to alert him of the dangerous criminal presence about. He's effectively handing over his own advantage in the game, but I don't blame Sherlock. I'd do the same, in fact. I've got a sibling too, and an insufferable one. If Sherlock prefers to keep some privacy in his conversation with his rival, I can understand also. However I hastily try to collect my breath from the run so I can listen in on the muffled one-sided conversation going on inside the booth. I'm sure, deep down Sherlock expects no less. I've been coupling up with a detective for far too long.

The derisive tones of Sherlock's voice soon reach a peak of irritation and abrasiveness, before he hangs up viciously. I wonder why the unusual break of pattern. Mycroft and Sherlock tend to stick to much tried, pained, aggravated, wounded and bitter shades of conversation. Blatant open anger is relatively new. Probably one too many personal conversations, I guess. Yeah, no surprise after all.

Sherlock exits the phone booth with a steady snarl that clings to his features. I take pity at once.

'I take it he didn't take you seriously, then.'

'Oh, he will', the detective retorts ominously.

'Where to now?' I change the subject, business-like.

He shakes his head, a bit like a dog showering off water from his fur.

'We're already here, John!' he announces, tetchy.

Hey, don't you go snapping at me; I warn him with a look. In his defence, his irritation subsides at once, as he recognised I'm not his target.

'We're right at the gates of the botanical gardens, John. Isn't it obvious? _Dracaena draco_ , the dragon's blood tree. It's a sample of its unusual red resin that we have received in our parcel.'

'But why send us that?' I try to make sense.

'To lure us here, where a known specimen of the tree resides. It'd be a bit mean to chop down a tree just to provide us the next clue, John.'

'I mean, why not just a line with the address?'

He chuckles. 'Good old John. And what would be the fun in that?'

I squint. 'You were not surprised by the clue. In fact, you seemed to expect it.'

'Generally speaking, of course.'

'But how?' I insist.

'I know the diplomat we'll meet at the end of our journey, he's a classical orchestra music enthusiast from Vienna, with a quirky sense of humour and a clever mind.'

'So he's the one that created this little contest for you and your brother to compete in?'

'Oh, no. It existed for centuries. He just brushed off the dust and polished it a bit for us.'

'And why would he do that?' I'm getting impatient now.

'I must assume he was bored, John. Why else would anyone go through such trouble?'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	107. Chapter 107

_A/N: Still not British, a writer or a botanist. -csf_

* * *

 _Plants are fantastic, John! -SH_

 _They make the most phenomenal poisons. -SH_

 _Can we keep a greenhouse at Baker Street? -SH_

 _The rooftop is severely underutilised, John. -SH_

 _We could keep some bees too. -SH_

 _John? -SH_

 _John? -SH_

 _The absence of a No is logically a Yes, John... -SH_

 _ **4.**_

We walk under a row of magnificent tall trees, with luscious canopies of dark leaves and hanging aerial roots pending from thick branches. We mind our steps among emerging roots that swirl about on the ground, surging up to a foot high at places, tripping our steps.

' _Ficus macrophyla_ , John. The strangling tree. I applaud your choice to pay attention to the botanical criminal crowds, but may I remind you that time urges?'

'Yes, yes, I'm right behind you! Where's your dragon?'

We're just coming up to a stocky tree with pointy leaves bundled up neatly, in the contained shape of a giant mushroom. It's thick and heavy, sturdy and mystical in its uncommon look, evocative of foreign lanscapes.

'Right here, John. The dye made from the red resin was once used on painting and as medicine, centuries ago.'

'Interesting... How does that help us?'

Sherlock has stopped by the tree's side with his hands united behind his back and a lecturer's complacency to his audience.

'Simple, John', he assures me. 'We find the identification plaque...' He moves ahead of me, to a small metal tag on a wooden support, and he kneels by it. I observe him carefully as he extracts a bit of chalk from his pockets (what else has he brought along that eluded my censorship?) and he brushes it against the pole that holds the sign. Much to my surprise I can see now that there were words carved into the plaque.

'What does it say?'

He's already taking up his phone and cross checking information. 'It says "estufa". It means "greenhouse", according to the online dictionary.' We looks around us.

'And once in the greenhouse, Sherlock?'

He won't even answer me, much too keen on keeping me in the dark and making himself look more grandiose.

 _ **.**_

There's an old Victorian greenhouse at the furthest end of the gardens, rusted ironworks holding up a number of glass panes where a variety of mosses and cobwebs filters in the daylight. Sherlock picks the old rusty lock with ease, using a set of burglar tools (I have no idea how he got that through customs). The inside is warm and musty as we walk in. No one is about and there is an eerie feel to the deep green stillness about.

At a corner, I find a filing cabinet compose of dozens of small squared drawers I come to find are full of labelled packets of seeds. The labels are old and faded, and I doubt whether those seeds can ever be rescued to make successful plants. It feels a bit of a waste that someone collected all this knowledge and cared for it meticulously, only to have it fade away.

Sherlock is opening the cupboard doors under the work benches to find microscopes and distillation columns, side by side with flower models in bright coloured plaster. This must have been a classroom once. Long before genetic engeneering, here it was attempted to cross breed different plants, select their properties, their uses and looks.

The detective hisses triumphantly when opening the last cupboard. I turn to find him studying a lined set of glass bottles just like the one we have been gifted. Same sepia toned label, same deep red ink inside.

 _What now?_

Sherlock seems to read my mind for he mutters between us: 'What doesn't belong here, John? Therein we'll find our next clue. Keep your eyes open!'

 _I'd favour a written set of instructions myself, but I'm hardly a genius anyway._

'John!' My detective friend calls me over. He has just unearthed an azalea with ruthless singlemindedness. Under it he finds a small token, much like a metal coin, but not one I have ever seen before.

'How did you know that was buried underneath the plant?' I marvel.

'The same way I knew it would be rusty. Iron smartens the colour in azaleas, John. That particular specimen is far more striking than the others, grown under the same conditions. Ergo, it had a special advantage. Easy.'

'And what's that?'

'Something we keep to prove we have passed this level, John.'

I squint. 'That's it? How can that be it? What do we do next?'

'We search for our next clue.'

'Where is it?'

'Don't know. We'll need to look for it.'

'That's not very specific, mate!'

He just stuffs the broken plant in my hands.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock booked us a room – or should I say just booked me a room; _I never sleep anyway, John!_ – in a low key boarding house. It's neat, clean and simple, and I'm at once satisfied with the place. Sherlock barges in on _my_ room with the same familiarity from 221B, and with a wistful expression he dumps his bags at the end of _my_ bed. I hurry off to hit the shower first, before my friend and his sharing mood can keep me from the hot water.

Mystery or no mystery, I'm determined to claim at once the comfort for myself.

 _ **.**_

I come back to my room to find Sherlock collapsed across the bedspread, arms open wide, as if his last conscious effort before falling asleep from exhaustion had been to hug the bed. Can't help but to smile at the soft expression of innocence and tranquillity across his face. I decide I'm too jittery to keep quiet, and leaving him a small note by his beloved phone ("just heading for a pint downstairs – John") I softly walk out and close the room door quietly on the latch behind me.

 _ **.**_

I glance away from the football game playing on a television screen at the back of this cafe, when I focus on a familiar face that makes me splatter just about half a cold pint.

'Greg Lestrade, what on earth are you doing here?'

The barely camouflaged Scotland Yard inspector in the bright shirt comes over and sits casually at my cafe table. He gestures to the waiter for another couple of pints and settles down with contained gestures, and attitude, as if he's testing the waters before spilling his story.

I let the silence extend uncomfortably, punctuated by cheers and groans from the game spectators around us.

Greg clears his throat. 'I was going to the supermarket when I saw you here', he eventually answers, as we sit by the window. He'd be a bit more convincing if not for those shifty eyes. He's clearly nursing a secret he's not keen on keeping.

'Hate to be the one telling you this, mate, but you're a bit lost here. This is not the way to Tesco's.'

His eyes twinkle, amused. 'And you, John? What are you here for? The weather's nice, came for a long weekend? To get a tan?'

'Not really, that's just a by-product. I'm here on a case with Sherlock, what else?' I disclose at once. My friend's uncomfortableness increases ten fold all of a sudden.

'Really? Well, good luck with your case, mate.'

Suddenly it all fits into place.

'Wait a minute! Greg, you— you're Mycroft's player?'

The detective inspector looks caught off-guard for a moment. 'Mycroft doesn't give you enough credit, John. He really believed you wouldn't catch on if you bumped into me in Lisbon. I have instructions. I'm to tell you that I'm here for a stag do.'

'Who's getting married?' I whisper, straining to keep anger out of my voice, for the official lie.

Greg shrugs. 'How would Mycroft Holmes ever know some bloke who's about to get married? I dunno.'

We both smile.

'Okay, I can work with that. I'll tell Sherlock that Anderson will get married soon and you are here to celebrate it. We'll keep to that for now.'

The DI ponders me with sensible brown eyes.

'Why are you helping me and Mycroft by keeping it a secret from Sherlock?'

'I'm not daft, Greg. I've worked out already that Sherlock phoned you, not his brother, to warn you of the danger.'

'Then why keep it a secret at all?'

I shrug, disingenuous. 'I thought you and I could keep in touch. Secretly. No need to share our teams positions or compromise our successes. Just that... we both have difficult geniuses to protect. Trust me, I know that it can be a draining and lonely exercise.' I'm fiddling with my empty pint glass now, carefully rolling it in my hand. 'We must make sure we all come alive out of this. Sherlock and I had already a life threatening experience. I can't tell you details about it because of the bloody rules. Sherlock seems to think it was his brother's making gone wrong.' I look straight at Greg. The inspector looks genuinely shocked. _Not that he knows of, at least._ 'I think some other team – let's call them that – has caught up with our quest. And they are in it for the kill.' Then I shrug and release the pint glass. 'Or it was all a bloody coincidence, Greg, and crime in this areas is very reckless. It could be, I suppose.'

My friend's eyebrows descend over into concern position those loyal brown eyes.

'I know you, mate. I know you wouldn't lie about that. I'm in. We can keep in touch, and share what doesn't give away our side's advantages. Burn phones, text messages only – unless it's bloody serious. And do me a favour, John, if you and Sherlock find yourselves again in a life threatening situation, call me. Don't waste time. Don't let a bloody game hold you back. It's not worth it.'

I nod, seriously. 'Same here.'

I call for another pint and Greg nurses his glass for a while. I'm the one who restarts the conversation after a small pause.

'How did Mycroft recruit you? Did he do the whole black car, tinted windows, kidnap routine? Took you to some abandoned factory in the middle of nowhere?'

Greg smiles, tight-lipped. 'He's actually not that bad, when you get to know him better, John. I mean', Greg thinks it through, the alcohol relaxing his usual restraint, 'between us is not like with you and Sherlock. You two are as thick as thieves. Mycroft tries to boss me around, and hogs all the brainy parts, and leaves me to the brawn. Well, in that regard, it is somewhat like you and Sherlock, innit?'

'So much that it's even scary', I notice with a loose smirk. Mirrored teams. A self-certified genius like Mycroft wouldn't change a winning formula. He rather emulate it to give himself better chances of winning the bet. 'But I get my shots at the brainy part too. I won't let Sherlock ever forget that. Mostly because it irks him so much. And about the brawns, Sherlock knows how to throw a mean right hook.'

Greg smiles, baring his teeth. 'Mycroft knows how to spar with a floret.'

'Fencing, the lost art of criminal chasing', I comment.

'You never know, it might come handy against those adversaries of yours, John.'

'If they drop by with florets I'll just send them your way, shall I?'

We both sigh at the same time.

'Our geniuses are silly, Greg', I say, overly honest. 'Well, I know why I follow mind around, but you? Why would you give up your holidays to protect Mycroft? Is he holding your family hostage on a dungeon somewhere?'

Greg's eyes are surprised at first, then soften considerably.

'Despite what Sherlock tells you, Mycroft is really not that bad. He's actually quite helpless, if you think about it.'

I sigh. 'That's how that get to us. They can't keep themselves alive without us.'

'Both Sherlock and Mycroft are really clever, you know. It's not an act. It's fascinating – in a socially awkward, train wreck situation about to happen and you can't stop looking sort of way.'

'Yeah, I guess.'

Greg takes up his wallet and starts getting the money to settle the tab. I rush to get my money out first, I'm buying.

'You know what, John? I may not be up-to-date with the football stats', Greg finishes, 'but I haven't been bored yet.'

'Yeah.'

We both call the waiter over at the same time.

 _ **.**_

I'm feeling more relaxed as I return to my modest room at the boarding house. Briefly I wonder if Sherlock has woken up already, but soon dismiss the possibility. I'd the genius was awake I'd have been bombarded with texts already, and anyway Sherlock tends to sleep deep and long to compensate for his usual insomnia sprees.

Humming a tune under my breath, I climb the last creaky wooden steps and reach for the door handle. I stop short, with my cold stomach performing a somersault.

I did not leave the door open a few millimetres wide. Either Sherlock did it – uncharacteristically muted and early – or I've just left my vulnerable friend alone when enemies are about.

 _ **.**_

I lean against the corridor wall with suspended breath, trying to listen to any sounds coming from the room. Tense seconds go by and I discern no activity from within. Carefully – mindfully – I extend a hesitant hand to the unlocked door and push it forward a few inches. No response. I pull the gun from my waistband and hold it up, ready to service me, before I move in.

My heart sinks at once. I spot Sherlock on the floor, gathering his wits with unsteady movements, bracing himself off the floor. I figure he has come to and won't have me seeing him fallen and defeated.

I hasten to help out the proud genius, putting down the gun on the hardwood floor as I reach instead for my wobbly friend.

'What happened? Are you hurt?' I try to find the usual steadiness in the dull grey looking eyes ahead of me. He waves me off dismissively (or misses me by some inches) and pretends it's nothing much for my benefit.

'Some impolite intruder... Caught me off guard... I seem to have fallen asleep... Didn't have a good look at him, it was dark in here, with the curtains drawn and—' He stops short, both of is staring at the now fully open curtains. Odd that, a thief that tidied up the place before leaving.

'The curtains weren't shut as I left. Why change them?'

'So I couldn't possibly see _his_ face.'

'Mycroft? Surely you don't suspect —'

'Who else, John? The fact that you don't find me dead on arrival further seems to prove the hypothesis.' He looks to the side table. Our case clue is gone. Sherlock's phone and wallet, however, are untouched on the table's surface. 'A very particular thief, John.'

'He wouldn't knock you unconscious!'

'I was asleep. I must have woken up. Can't really recall. Maybe I just stirred and he panicked. He didn't want to take his chances, that is wake up and fight him. He'd lose.'

I blink, trying to keep from Sherlock my shock, that Mycroft would behave so despicably towards his baby brother.

'Someone he hired, then!' _Mycroft wouldn't, he couldn't..._

Sherlock presses his eyes shut in meek irritation, his head must be hurting bad.

'Mycroft's player is Greg Lestrade, I knew it all along. The inspector is loyal and minimally competent. Not having you, John, he chose Lestrade. And Lestrade wouldn't go for such methods.'

'Sherlock, listen to me. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have left you alone.' _And not for so long, but I had a decoy to keep me away._

He waves me off again. I notice his coordination has generally improved a lot. However, perfect coordination would be hitting me square in the jaw, right now. I earned that.

Sherlock's eyes cloud further as he's taking me in. A steady hand comes to my shoulder in friendship. 'It's nothing, and I've got my doctor about.'

'Let's get some cold water over that temple wound, then I'll check it out. Can you make it to the bathroom with my help?'

'Sure, John... Not all is bad, you know. My brother took possession of our first clue and will undoubtedly find the second. No matter. I like a bit of competition. Otherwise it'd all be too easy.'

I rather not comment on how Sherlock is so quick to defend his brother's actions, or what I'd do to Mycroft if I found him right now. Sherlock must be my priority, and I'll stay by his side this time.

Greg was wrong. There is no redeeming for big brother Holmes. No end justifies beating up your baby brother. He'll have a former soldier to answer to.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	108. Chapter 108

_A/N: Sorry I missed a Thursday. Been having lots going on (quit my longstanding underwhelming job, taking a chance moving on to another) and couldn't focus to write. -csf_

* * *

 _ **5.**_

Sherlock is sat at the edge of the bathtub in this crammed bathroom. He looks oddly reminiscent of a broken doll as I face him. Knees brushing together, ankles wide apart, feet pointing inwards. His wrists are firmly planted on the enamel and his shoulders hunch a little, under what I assume is a vicious headache. Curls in disarray, a few plastered on to the wet patch on his wounded temple, he looks so detached from the customary overbearing presence one usually associates with the consulting detective. I come over and he patiently allows me to doctor him, in what ends up being a familiar setting in our line of work. I'm deeply touched by his implicit full trust, not only in permitting me – and only me, I suspect – so close, but also in shedding the façade and allowing me to see him for who he really is, in a moment of vulnerability. It's a trust I'd do anything to keep intact; and yet haven't I just failed him, lowering my guard at a moment when my friend was absent from consciousness?

'Stop thinking, John, it's really not your forte', my friend snaps; but there's a warm smile as I look down at his expression. His mood shifting eyes are now a deep green, and I'd keep them at this colour all the time if I could choose. I look for signs of pain and discomfort in those myriad shades of green, and they are so easy to pinpoint in those mossy undertones around his constricted pupils.

'Give it some time for that aspirin to kick in', I ask of him, my voice comes across a bit tremulous. Shaken, affected. I clear my throat at once, wondering silently about how I always get affected when Sherlock is my patient.

He nods, cautiously, and allows some other layer of restraint to dissolve between us, as he softly drops his head towards my stomach. Slowly, as if tentatively, he allows the weight of his pain to rest against my steady posture. Diligently, I keep cleaning and assessing the wound on his scalp. It won't take long before I'm done, and the wound is clotting nicely; won't even require bandaging providing Sherlock is careful about it. Feeling some awkwardness now in my red cheeks, I try to put some order in those luxurious, raven black curls. Sherlock sighs at the touch of my fingertips over his scalp and further melts against my shirt. I guess the headache will be ebbing away now, at last.

'Don't you go drooling on me, Sherlock', I tease, and somehow the words filling the small bathroom carry no edge.

'Nonsense', he grunts in response, pushing himself straight at once. My hands immediately fall to my sides, my fingertips missing the contact with those silky strands.

I wonder briefly what on earth is wrong with me. My best mate got hurt and I'm getting myself distracted by patting his hair. I blink away the last remnants of tranquillity, and demand to know:

'It'd be wise to move out, Sherlock. We have been discovered and attacked at this location. Either I stay up all night with my gun, or we go elsewhere so I can get some rest too. Where is our next lead? Where will this case take us next?'

He clears his throat, blinking a bit over his deep green eyes, as if he didn't quite fully trust his faculties yet. Must have been quite a whack to the head.

'John', he finally tells me, 'your common sense serves you well, but we are not to leave Lisbon yet.'

'Alright, if you say so... What are we waiting for?'

'Our next clue. We get it tomorrow, at the cafe once more.'

I sigh and snap shut the first aid kit.

'You know what, Sherlock? I'm not liking this case much, right now. It better get better. In fact, I'm not liking Lisbon much either.'

'Why?' he asks me with a cautious head tilt. 'Because I got hurt? Won't happen again, John, they've got what they came for already. You don't need to stay up on sentinel duty.'

I shake my head slowly. 'I don't like that we are the puppets of some indulgent diplomat who has set himself the task of challenging two brothers at their own request. This is all pointless, superfluous, overindulgent, ego stroking crap in my honest opinion, and benefits no-one!' I finish with caught breath and latent anger.

Sherlock's eyes are now dimmed as they ponder me. The sundown light crossing the small bathroom window and a change in angle has turned that deep meaningful green into muddy green and greys now.

I regret my outburst at once.

'You will be reward financially, John, must I remind you of that?'

I'm fuming all of a sudden. 'Don't care about money, Sherlock!'

He gets up, flexible and never without breaking eye contact.

'But you care about honour. Think of this case that way, John. It's my honour that needs protecting now. My name and profession are at stake. In yours and in Mycroft's hands.'

'And Greg's', I add for good measure.

'Lestrade doesn't count', Sherlock snaps coldly. I blink. Once, twice, but then dismiss the uncomfortable thought. Sherlock has shown me nothing but loyalty so far.

'You're sure you want to persist in this game?' _It's what it all boils down to, isn't it?_ He dismisses my worries, belittles Greg's input; _it's all about the silly bet with his even sillier brother._ That's what brings that adventurous light into his eyes, the fire under his words, the energy to his agitated movements.

'Quite sure, John', he tells me with finality. I look away, he won't even acknowledge my worry, dismissing it as an after effect of shock to find my flatmate (and roommate) knocked out.

But follow and help I will, if I must. I'll always be found following my mad friend. Someone needs to keep him from harm.

'Okay, Sherlock, it's your call. We keep going.'

 _ **.**_

I wake up a bit sore from sleeping on the rug over the floor. It's a tiny one bed guestroom, and I forced Sherlock to rest in the bed, to recuperate his _transport_.

In what seems only a few minutes later, we take turns to shower and get ready for the new day. The morning glow shines bright through the window panes and I find myself impatient to go show Mycroft his dirty tricks won't give him the desperate edge he needs in the game.

Finally Sherlock and I leave the guest house and walk the quiet cobble stone pavements to the high street. The same tall and geometrical buildings line the streets with colourful façades glistening with geometrical patterned tiles. Yellows, pinks, whites and navy blues intermingling with the limestone and heavy wooden doors. Pigeons, lots of them, line up over the power cables for the tram, rolling over narrow metal tracks embedded in the road. Traffic, lots of morning traffic, and a modern city bustling at its own frenetic pace under the shadow of history.

I stop short as we near yesterday's cafe. The doors are locked, the urban furniture is not out. There's no sign of activity about, just a handwritten note stuck to one of the glass windows.

Sherlock snaps the paper in his hands and types furiously the foreign words in his phone. I wait with baited breath for an explanation.

 _Where's our next clue? What's going on?_

'Mycroft!' Sherlock hisses his brother's name as he crumbles the paper and vindictively flings it away. I gather he had something to do with this unexpected setback. His influence extends overseas, I notice.

More practical, I try the doors. Definitely locked. The whole establishment is closed, and we find no trace of yesterday's bilingual waiter either. No package with our names attached left on the doorstep, no contact phone number in case of emergency for adventurers, no idea on what to do next.

'You think Mycroft got here first? But it's closed!'

'He would do that, to keep us from the goal. And to gloat.'

'Really? How did he do this?'

The detective's eyes narrow to a slit, snake-like. 'And why not? He got our first lead from our room. He saw my wallet. Besides it he saw the receipt from this cafe. Didn't take much imagination, John. Even you wouldn't miss such blatant deduction.'

I flinch. That was all my fault. But Sherlock doesn't mean it that way, he's already moving on:

'It was my fault', he selflessly admits for my benefit. 'I allowed you to longer and tend to my wound. It was unnecessary as it wasn't fatal. We should've proceeded instead.'

I shake my head, sure Sherlock's well-being is paramount in this silly sibling rivalry game.

'So you think Mycroft—'

'I'm sure', he interrupts me.

From behind us a snotty, arrogant voice proclaims: 'You snooze, you lose, brother dear.'

We turn. The unflappable elder Holmes stands there with his weight supported by the thin black umbrella that never leaves his side (it's really a sunny day, Mycroft; _really?_ ), mocking us with one of his dead smiles.

'Mycroft', Sherlock hisses once more, as if it left a vile taste in his mouth.

I face the older brother with a head tilt. 'Came here to gloat?' I ask, disingenuously.

'Far from it, John. I came here to give you a fighting chance. I came here to sell my advantage. I believe my brother is willing to pay the price.' Seeing me blank, he adds: 'It's within the agreed upon rules, John.'

'Did you guys actually write down a set of rules, or do you just make it up on the spot?'

He rolls his eyes, or just about. 'Why would we write the rules? We have perfect memories.'

 _Missing the point there, mate._

'Any more annoying rules I should know about?'

He smiles enigmatically, Cheshire cat style. 'All in due time', he answers languidly. 'Sherlock?'

My friend acts aloof. 'You're still there? Nice try, but I won't take your help.'

'Story of our lives.' Mycroft blinks as if he had lost himself on memories there. 'I must go. I have a quest to finish. It should be quick now, with only me to play it.'

'Wait!' I call out. Immobile, arms crossed in front of me, it's my sharp army captain voice that elicits a response from both Holmes. They both look back at me, in waiting.

'John?' Mycroft starts, dull.

'John.' Sherlock repeats my name, firmly. He doesn't want me to confront his brother.

'You won't win, you know?' I end up saying, ominously. My revenge on the big brother Holmes can wait. First, we'll win Sherlock's way. We'll solve the case and collect the reward. I'll make sure of that. _I've got a few aces up my sleeve anyway._

Mycroft eyes narrow, but he acts unaffected.

'Have a nice day, Sherlock. John. Enjoy the city, go to a museum, chill out in a public garden. Personally I recommend the pastries. Worth the travel all by themselves. Cheerio!'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	109. Chapter 109

_A/N: Oh. Portuguese, yes, I am. There, you got me! Hence all the crazy English grammar, I guess. Lisbon? No, I'm from elsewhere. So I might get the details wrong. Honestly, fan fiction is not the best travel guide anyway. -csf_

* * *

 _ **6.**_

'So what was that?' I ask as Mycroft leaves us by a shut down cafe on a warm busy Lisbon street. No leads, Mycroft is ahead of us in the wacky rivalry game, and enjoying every minute.

Sherlock growls silently to the vacant spot where his brother just stood before acknowledging:

'Mycroft was messing with me. Never mind, John.'

'He was selling his advantage? Why? To keep us in the game?'

Sherlock glances at me; a sly, calculating glance he'd usually keep from me. Finally he dully admits: 'For all I know Mycroft might have been bluffing.'

'Bluffing? What do you mean?'

'He might have found a shut down establishment, just like us, and made up a supposed advantage stance in this game.'

'So how would he tell us the next lead if we had bought it?'

'The real question is how gullible can you be, John, if you'd believe my brother. He's the enemy, right now, and he'll do what it takes to win the case over me.' As soon as he released those angry words Sherlock was suddenly moving away. As always, I follow as close as I can, after his long legged strides.

'Where are we going?'

'To retrieve the missing lead!' Sherlock declares victoriously.

 _ **.**_

We don't walk much before Sherlock takes a brisk halt by someone's apartment building front door. I see my friend's bulky coat concealing his movements, with his back to the street, as he slides his locksmiths picking tools case out of his inner pocket.

Inwardly, I begin to repent ever having classified Sherlock's luggage as eccentric. Whatever scientific and instrumental paraphernalia Sherlock has smuggled into this country, it serves him well.

'Do me a favour and look away, John', Sherlock trails lazily, 'we are surrounded by potential witnesses and your interest suggests a drugs or sexual interchange about to happen.'

My eyes edge away automatically, but I still question: 'Better having those trustworthy eye witnesses thinking we're burgling the place?'

Sherlock's eyes snap up to my face with too much innocence after his disingenuous remark, just as the lock gives in with a metallic click.

'Just thinking about your reputation, John', he alleges.

I snort. 'Like that would ever stop you.'

We edge inside the cool hallway of the building and Sherlock snaps the door shut behind us. 'This is the historical area, John. A powerful earthquake in 1755 brought about a series of fires that ravished Lisbon. As a consequence, the city got rebuilt practically from its ashes. Most of this area is still laid out over an early 1800s architectural structure.'

'Fun', I comment, disengaged. Sherlock glances at me enquiringly before I clarify: 'All neat, that academic lesson there. But how does that help us?'

'Patience, doctor!' he urges me, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me along towards the back of the building. 'Proud façades line the streets but the space inside the street blocks, what was it used for? Initially they were meant as common areas, for garden patches, for water tanks and workshops.'

Sherlock dislodges an old and cracking wood frame of a window, big enough for a man to go through, and offers me passage. I have to climb over a forgotten chair in the corner to reach the required height and sneak through the said window. The detective waits in his best behaviour. As soon as I bodily go past the opening I see what Sherlock foresaw with so much assuredness. What is now a cement and weeds patch surrounded by tall building walls is also a direct way into next door's cafe. Not a simple break in, but out here we'll be mostly out of sight as Sherlock does his entry magic on the cafe's back door.

We're definitely burglars today.

I jump down to the ground beyond, with Sherlock following me at once, elegant and deftly, as he even snaps closed the window behind us.

 _ **.**_

'I could really go for a cup of coffee right now', I comment, eyeing enviously the expresso machine behind the counter.

Sherlock eyes me with interest. 'You may want to pace yourself with those. They pack a punch.'

I shrug. The detective keeps assessing the cafe's floors and aligned tables and chairs with the same proficiency he shows on a crime scene. 'So?'

'How effective will you be with your gun, after that much coffee?'

I look down on my hands. They are not shaking... much.

'Just find us the next clue, Sherlock', I grump, burying my hands in my pockets.

'You overwork me, John.'

I frown at his words. My socially awkward smiles warmly in return as he notices my speechless silence.

'Here, John!'

I approach at once.

'What did you find?'

'Our next brown parcel, John. This was meant for us.' My friend is already assaulting the small parcel. It looks just about empty, as if a simple envelope would have sufficed to hold our next lead.

Sherlock takes out a piece of bright coloured paper.

'What's that?' I inch closer.

'A ticket.' His eyes flash over the surface. 'We must go at once.'

'What's the hurry?'

'Mycroft might be in the lead.'

'I thought you said he was bluffing!'

'I said he _might_ have been. We cannot take the chance.'

I puff out some held breath, trying to dissipate my irritation.

'And where are we going next?'

'To a palace, John. It's a shame. I'm too overdressed for a palace.'

I smirk. _No bed sheets about._

 _ **.**_

During the cab's long drive away from the capital centre, Sherlock keeps deeply quiet.

'You didn't expect this location', I surmise.

Sherlock almost jumps off his seat, and does a double take on me. As if he had completely forgotten my presence in the confined vehicle, and his mind had wandered off in some old memory.

'It fits the pattern', he returns, cryptically.

'You still think you know what this is all about, why are we being led about a foreign country's capital.'

'Of course, John. And so should you. I have shared enough data with you.'

I smile in utter disbelief. 'No, you most certainly have not!'

'And', he adds firmly, 'you are most capable of carrying your own weight.'

'What does that mean?' I take offense.

'You are free to carry out your own researches, John.'

'Oh', I comeback sarcastically, 'is that in the rules, then?'

Sherlock deadpans at me, before turning his gaze back on the heath and wild aloe lining the tarmac road.

I'm forced to take out my phone and do my best to investigate the location online. Not that it is fair in any way. Sharing the cab, Sherlock is miles ahead of me on our quest.

 _ **.**_

It's called a palace, and it was built in extreme opulence in the 18th century by King's order in Mafra. Limestone and marble baroque comprise royal living quarters, a library, a basilica and define the limits of the old hunting grounds.

A fine tourist attraction, I'm sure, but what is it to us, apart from a chance to check items of a travel guide?

We're arriving when Sherlock emerges from his day dream. He runs a quick analysis of his partner before recognising: 'It's the second of three lead locations, John.'

I blink. Where is he getting all this inside information from?

'Keep close, Sherlock. We're not separating again. Bad things happen when we separate. It's like a B list horror film.'

Sherlock just smirks at that.

 _ **.**_

The latest tourists group leaves the intricate basilica, sightseeing the space through their camera phones and lively chatting about the afternoon's plans and the next guide tour stop. They never notice that the two men who infiltrated their group have now stayed behind.

Silence falls on the cool space, adorned by religious figures and iconography from every niche, cornice, column and altar. Sherlock ignores all that the usual visitor's focal point, with the exception of the magnificent pipe organs crafted onto the walls.

'Which one?' he mumbles under his breath, looking sequentially at each of them.

I glance over my shoulder. For now, no one else is about, but we don't have too much time. _Sherlock, you need to hurry up._

The detective's eyes narrow. 'Follow the music', he murmurs, and with that he grabs me by the arm (it's becoming a habit these days) and leads me with him to a small wooden door in a corner niche.

'Sherlock?' I've got reservations about this. How are we to explain ourselves if we get caught?

My unconventional friend twists the door knob and we find a narrow stone stairwell, built as a circular hideout inside the thick corner pillar. He presses in without a second thought of the claustrophobia nausea that assaults me, behind him. If it wasn't for his comforting grip, holding me by the hand now, I'd have hesitated long and hard.

Up on top, Sherlock finds a second door, and as he swings it open, the open air flows down the stone tunnel. I can feel the breeze waving my hair and feel relieved at once. Sherlock and I come to a narrow walkway, at the end of a sloped roof, walled in by a low balustrade from the abyss side of our great height. I blink and make sure to reach out for the stone structure by my side, grounding me as I take in the breathless landscape view about us. Meanwhile Sherlock is grabbing hold of a small wooden chest laying about and shaking it between his hands.

'There! I can hear something rattling inside! We need a key, John!'

I blink. _What now?_

Sherlock glances at me and requests: 'Stay here. Don't let anyone come near this wooden chest, John. I'll collect the key.'

I blink again. 'Where is the key?'

He rolls his eyes. 'Between the pipe organ's playing keys obviously! Not even you would miss the obvious word play!'

I blink. He squints.

'John, what's wrong with your eyesight? You keep blinking.'

'It's a lot to take in. _Never mind_ ', I correct myself, 'go get that key. Preferably before Mycroft gets up here.'

'Mycroft?' Sherlock repeats.

'There's nothing wrong with my eyesight. I can see him arriving at the patio bellow.' I point to the two small figures at a distance, exiting a cab. Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade.

Sherlock hurries back down that narrow pathway.

I let out a tired breath.

Suddenly I hear a small noise behind me. I try to turn but I'm too late, too distracted, too vulnerable. I've been pushed from where I stood safely, losing balance over the sloped rooftop that edges away over the low balustrade.

No time to search for who pushed me. I'm desperately trying to grab hold of the slick surface, before I'm propelled over the edge, several stories high above the ground bellow.

I'm not sure if I'd survive the fall.

 _ **.**_

Desperately grabbing onto the edge of the rooftop, my fingers sliding over the slick surface, I will myself never to look down and face my doom. I try to claw my way up on the mossy slate, but to no avail. Inch by inch I'm losing the battle, inching closer to my fall.

I have no magic trick up my sleeve.

Suppressing the urge to panicky call out to my best mate, this time I must admit he won't come. He can't come. Not in time anyway, and he'll be so upset once I'm splattered on the pavement bellow...

'Sherlock!' I call as steadily as I can. I'm afraid I get no reply.

" _Keep strong, John!"_ I hear in my head the familiar voice of my best friend, conjured out of smoke and mirrors and pure desperation; my magic trick on call.

 _What for?_

" _Something. Anything. Help is coming."_

 _Not even you can commission that out of thin air!_

" _Never. Give. Up. Not you, John. It's not like you to give up."_

I nod to myself, as I feel a bead of sweat trickling down my face. My left shoulder is on fire but I will never allow to let go of that last tangible stretch of rooftop. Fate must come and get me, and even then I'll put up a fight with the inevitable.

I shut my eyes hard, hitched breath, desperate to gather my failing strengths. I focus on nothing at all. Clear minded, my world narrows to the grounding pain and that slick, hard, cold surface of rooftop that pinpoints the whole world to me.

My right hand suddenly loses contact with the slippery surface and held by my left hand, I sway over the edge of the roof, holding on by clawed fingertips and screeching fingernails.

A strong hand emerges from over the edge of the roof, wrapping strong and secure fingers around my wrist. 'Sherlock?' I call out, feverishly. But as soon as I say it, I know I'm in the wrong. No, they are not my friend's familiar fingers.

 _I'm being rescued by a different Holmes._

'Mycroft!' I call out relieved, even before his face comes over the edge of the roof, and a second hand comes grabbing my jacket to help me up.

He doesn't bother answering my call, trying his mightest to pull me up to the relative safety of the roof's surface. A basic rescue mission, carried out with efficient minimalism.

 _ **.**_

I'm struggling to my feet with unsteady moves, arms flailing about in an overreaction of grounding precautions. Mycroft watches me on steadily, but stony. His face a careful crafted mask of indifference. Suddenly he breaks character, just after I wobble one last time to reach the stone recess with the wooden door, and snaps at me: 'Where's Sherlock?'

 _I'm not telling you mate!_

I glance suspiciously at Mycroft, but find something unexpected in his expression. As if he didn't trust his baby brother all along and this _neglect_ had just come to confirm his suspicions. Even after all these years he still sees his little brother as a spoiled brat, contrary just for kicks, irresponsible and neglectful. Mycroft fails to see Sherlock as the incredible adult and brilliant mind he has grown to be.

Shaking I assure Mycroft, who must have surely come to this passageway through a different route, avoiding Sherlock and my enemy completely: 'It's a plan. We got separated strategically. Thanks, Mycroft, but don't fret. I was just stupidly careless.'

Mycroft Holmes squints at me, unconvinced.

'Next time I'll make sure there are points lost for every time one of our players almost dies, John', he offers in what he assumes to be a helpful way.

He hands me the wooden chest that Sherlock is searching the key to, and only then do I notice he's holding a second similar chest. _One for each team, I gather._

I smirk. _I can see what fooled Greg._ Just a hint of some deep rooted morals that, like in any Holmes, get lost in the performance.

'No worries. No damage done, not at all', I assure Sherlock's brother.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	110. Chapter 110

_A/N: Everybody calm down, we are all trying our best here..._ _-csf_

* * *

 _Sherlock-_

 _I'm on my way, John! -SH_

 _ **7.**_

'What happened?'

I struggle to put on a brave face through the odd erratic heartbeat; it comes out strained and fake. 'We should go for a walk', I ask, handing Sherlock the wooden chest from the rooftop. I've come to meet the genius just as he tenaciously has found the missing key to the lock. In fact, Sherlock was already rushing on his way up (on account of my laconic text message, he immediately knew something was wrong, texting a reply mid run) and we just about collided at the bottom of the narrow circular stairwell passage.

Sherlock takes the wooden chest I'm handing him with marked indifference, all his attention strung on my movements and reactions.

I won't say anything just yet – a group of visitors to the basilica warding off my confidences – and we both press our exits through a side way.

I shiver as we go past the very spot where a John Watson almost got splattered all over the pavement stones. Sherlock's eyes narrow dramatically as he takes in my undisguised reaction. Still he can't put together what happened. He left me with no knowledge of an immediate danger.

The warm sunshine and the gentle breeze ground me as I slowly impart my tale to my oblivious best friend. Throughout, Sherlock keeps it together and gently guides me to a vast lawn expanse where finally we both steal a seat on the grass.

Plucking weeds off the lawn with my fingertips, as if in that meretricious task I could restore the order in the universe, I conclude my tale:

'I guess I got lucky. Your brother had just arrived up there to find the clue. His clue. Turns out there were two chests there, all the same. Well, he found the other one from wherever he came. Mycroft must have heard me, and came over.'

Sherlock takes a deep breath, his eyes are the colour of a brewing storm, kept at bay only by sheer willpower.

'Mycroft arrived heroically only when the criminal hand that pushed you off the roof had already departed. Marvellous timing', Sherlock decries. 'He only intervened when all was over and done with. How remarkably _safe_ of him', he further scorns.

'Better late than never, I suppose', I grumble to my water bottle. I've been trying to unscrew the cap, but my stiff shoulder has been screaming in protest at every attempt. Finally I give up, putting down the water bottle down on the luscious tepid grass we've come to for a break in the Holmes game. The detective reaches out fluidly, uncapping it for me, putting it down again. He knows I don't want to call attention to my strained shoulder. He probably knows that my bummed shoulder could have cost me my life; if Mycroft had been slower, or if Sherlock never found the key in time. I pick up the now open bottle and take a few grateful sips.

Whoever pushed me off the roof ignored two treasure chests. They wanted to stop me, and cared little for the game itself. The evidence doesn't make much sense.

'I trust Mycroft has done a minimally good job of saving your life, John', Sherlock finally states to the landscape around us, dispassionately.

I smirk; I'm not meant to complain. _He did save my life, Sherlock._

'That's one more thing to add to your brother's proficiency listings', I remark, striving for a neutral tone of voice. 'I'm sure he keeps very organised lists, somewhere in his office. Probably golden framed on the walls. Maybe he even issues himself high honours medals for every soldier's life he saves.'

Sherlock shakes his head. 'Soon my pesky brother might keep the end of game reward too. He's ahead of us.'

'I've got you our chest, Sherlock. You got the key and you've opened it. It has a folded classical music score inside. As a musician, I would have thought it would have intrigued you a bit more.'

The consulting detective shakes his dark curls in negation. 'I expected it', he alleges.

I look away. _What else?_

'Sherlock, you mentioned three pit stops earlier. We've done two. So has Mycroft. There's only a third to go. Do you know where we must go next? Can we get there before your brother?'

Sherlock shakes his shoulders like a dog shaking off fleas.

'It can wait. You need to rest.'

My turn to shake my head. 'I think I got it. This next one is the important one. At the botanic gardens we got a token, something like a coin. Implying payment for the object we are to rescue and take to the foreign diplomat in Morocco. And now we got a piece of classical music. It's got to be a clue to what the object may be. We might even have to choose the right object at the last location. There won't be two objects, like there were two wooden chest and possibly two token coins. This time the first team to get there gets the advantage, and the other team will at best try to steal it from the first. That means we cannot wait, and we need to make a better job of keeping ourselves safe from now on. Speaking of which, how's that head wound of yours? You shouldn't even have gone to that rooftop earlier after the hit you got. You could have felt dizzy and—' I cut myself short, abruptly. _He could have fallen off._

Sherlock seems to notice my speech hitching, and answers magnanimously: 'I'm alright now. My doctor fixed me.'

I strain an honest smile. _That's not really how medicine works._ If Sherlock can proceed, so can I.

'Look, Sherlock. I've hydrated myself, I'm all ready now. Let's go.' I get up slowly but decidedly, pressuring my friend.

He follows my lead with some wonder in his eyes.

'Really, John?'

'Absolutely.'

'Thank you. You are the best player I could have brought along in this game.' He sounds astonished and sincere.

 _Sherlock really would have given up the whole game for his partner's insignificant fright, wouldn't he?_

'I'm also the only player that would have come to your summoning, Sherlock', I add, timely, just to keep him honest.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock has just gone to enquire something from the tour coach driver up ahead. Possibly also to deduce and analyse every tourist in this coach we've infiltrated on, in order to return to the capital's centre.

I'm quietly sat at a musky upholstered seat when I take my phone out from my pocket.

 _Seven missed calls. All from Greg Lestrade._

I text him to say Sherlock and I are alright.

Immediately the phone rings. I look over my shoulder to see if Sherlock is anywhere nearby. Not spotting the genius returning yet I risk taking the call.

'Hey, Greg. Are you alright?'

His voice comes sharp and clear through the line. 'John, I heard about the roof, mate. Are _you_ alright?'

'Yeah, of course.'

'Look, _it wasn't Mycroft_.'

I huff. 'If it was – and I'm not saying it was, I'm not sure – I wouldn't expect him to get his own hands dirty.'

'John, I trust Mycroft.'

 _Yeah, I got that; loud and clear._

'I heard you the first time.'

Lestrade sighs audibly through the line.

'Remember when our boy Sherlock faked his death? The whole Moriarty and the oversized egos genius masterminds clash showdown thing?'

I gulp drily. 'How could I forget? Dark times, Greg.'

I glance suspiciously at the German lady studying a language guide, seating by my side on the coach.

'Yeah. For both of us', Greg agrees.

'And for Mrs Hudson too', I add for good measure. 'And Molly in her own way. And Sherlock's indigents network, I guess. On a whole, the borough of London—'

Lestrade interrupts me: 'It almost cost me my job.'

I clear my throat before looking away. From miles away, he still reads my mind easily.

'Not comparing with how hard it was on you, mate. I mean, we both cared a lot about Sherlock, but you watched him—'

I interrupt then: 'What's your point?'

He lowers his voice. 'How do you reckon I kept my job?'

'There were doubts. Not everyone believed that nonsense about Sherlock being a fraud. It was clear that he helped you solve cases that no one else was solving. The truth would eventually emerge.'

Greg nods slowly. 'I reckon it would. It might have destroyed my career first, though. _Someone_ had my back, John. Vouched for me and all. The same _someone_ that tried keeping an eye on you, but you always pushed him away. In the end _he_ asked me to keep my eye on you. _He_ needn't; I already meant to. _Mycroft Holmes_ couldn't bloody well teach me how to be a friend.'

My throat feels parched dry and I force down some gulps of my water.

'Is that when you met him?'

I can just about hear him smirk. 'There may have been some early encounters, in his endearing way. Kidnaps, anonymous emails, unknown caller text messages at the odd hours of the night urging me to get in touch with Sherlock...'

I nod slowly, distractedly, looking out of the window.

'Yeah, I can see how he'd pick you for this now.'

Greg keeps an intense silence on the line, never abandoning me for a second. Finally he decides, good natured, on apologising: 'Sorry to bring Bart's up, mate. I don't suppose one ever truly gets over a thing like that.'

I shut my eyes, hard. 'I thought Sherlock was your friend. You sold him off to Mycroft. Was it because of the reward being promised? Will he get you a promotion at the Yard?'

Greg's silence is eloquent in self-righteous dignity.

'I suppose I deserved that', he pulls himself together. 'Look, I never meant to hurt Sherlock, or to beat him at this pseudo game. I knew he would invite you on, and when I heard of the whole thing it sounded adventurous and fun and I wanted in on it. Like I said, Mycroft is not as bad as you think, and if I couldn't have one of the brothers, I thought why not go with the other one?'

I finish my drink in one go.

'Yeah', I reply in a dead voice, 'what's a little betrayal when it's _fun_?'

Greg dry swallows. 'John. _Mate_...'

'Save it.'

'I know what you think Mycroft did to Sherlock, but I don't believe it. And now this happens to you, do you think Mycroft did it too?'

I snort before my grimace turns to disgust. 'How about you, Greg, been feeling the urge to hit people on the head, or push them out of rooftops?'

I hang up before he can answer, catching him much too shocked to do so anyway.

 _ **.**_

Lisbon's narrow streets are packed with people coming to and fro. The electrifying buzz composed of snatches of conversations, passing cars' stereos, street vendors pitching products to eager crowds, and children running around in mischief surround us at every corner.

'We're being followed, John', Sherlock states darkly, burying his hands in his coat's pockets.

'By Greg?' I guess, stiffening. Can't turn, that would give us away.

'Naturally. What is the point of having two team members if not to engage one in industrial espionage?'

I frown. 'You didn't ask me to spy on Mycroft.'

He grunts, indignant. 'I'm not letting you out of my sight again anytime soon, John.'

 _Can't blame him._

'We should try to evade Greg.'

'Lestrade is a police officer, trained at the art of following suspects and good stake outs. We would waste our time, we may as well push forward. Let him follow us. Mycroft probably has also deduced the last location anyway.'

'By the way, how did you?' I ask the detective, curiously.

He grimaces, then hurriedly glances one way and the other as if it pained to have to spell it out loud to a slower mind. _It's Sherlock Holmes, folks; the one and only._ 'You saw the music score, John!'

'Yeah...' _Don't follow._

'A classical violin piece, John. What does that tell you?'

'That it's right up your alley, mate!'

'About the case, John, the clue!'

'I don't know.' Then, thinking of the red blooded tree and the botanical gardens. 'We go to some orchestra house?'

'No. But you're definitely getting warmer now.'

 _No, please not with the charades games again! This is not the time or the place, Sherlock!_

He reads my expression easily.

'Just— put all the clues together, John', he advises me, suddenly changing course. I can tell Sherlock doesn't intend to tell me the answer any more. 'We are looking for a transportable object, John', he further advises.

I frown. 'Is it in the game that I have to guess the object?' I suspect. But at once I dismiss the idea. This is a sibling rivalry challenge. The self-absorbed geniuses wouldn't leave essential steps to the less genial minds. Only, that's what Sherlock is doing, by pulling me in.

Sherlock allows an amused smirk on his face, grudgingly let free. 'No, John', he retorts warmly, 'but this is much more fun.'

Shouldn't be a surprise, Sherlock breaking the rules. He does it all the time. _This time he's doing it for me._

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	111. Chapter 111

_A/N: I'm exhausted and caffeinated. -csf_

* * *

 _ **8.**_

'The coin!' I realise suddenly. 'We are _buying_ the object, we need a shop, Sherlock!' Then I squint. _He's the detective, after all._

Taking in my hesitancy, I could swear something in him saddens. Sherlock Holmes, the man who vows everyone's an idiot, doesn't like it when I'm not boasting with investigative self-assurance. As if the great detective's partner was in a league of his own.

Sherlock soon nods; I could swear there was a hint of pride lurking somewhere under his cool demeanour.

'But where, though?' I continue what has now become my monologue. I'm convinced my friend knows the solution already (possibly has known it all along), but he insists I must get there myself. 'There are so many little shops and big commercial surfaces in this city.'

He nods, and opens his mouth to say something – he hasn't the time.

'What was that?' I saw it too. A swift, dissimulated move in the shadows of a busy street.

'It appears we are being followed by more than just Lestrade.'

'You mean Mycroft too?'

'My brother would have bumbled down the street with too much obviousness. Lestrade would not allow him to do so, he's got enough sense. However, we have in the past encountered multinational criminals before. What are the slim chances that having come to Lisbon we have been recognised and tagged by old criminal acquaintances?' He smirks, victoriously. 'I'm sure you remember the Lisbon kidnappers, John. We have run into them before. I believe you have even mentioned them in your blog, with sufficient detail. Not very intelligent or proficient, and prone to short bursts of violence.'

I drudge up some memory with difficulty. We deal with quite a lot of criminals on a regular basis. 'Aren't the Lisbon kidnappers in prison?'

Actually, their title is a bit ambitious. They never actually accomplished any kidnapping plans; Sherlock caught them as thieves when they failed to infiltrate the correct address. It's a bit difficult to kidnap the wife of a wealthy business man, away on work, in the next door neighbours. Except it was night time and the wife was sleeping with a neighbour. So they might have succeeded in the end. But they went to the wrong neighbour, a man who lives alone and was convinced the thieves, that he stopped easily being a war veteran from the Falklands, were enemy spies, out to get old military intelligence secrets from him. The Yard was confused beyond measure and only Sherlock could make sense of the Lisbon twins' intentions and the comedy of errors it produced.

'Extradited from England, I believe they have done their time. With unrefined criminal taste and working class predictability, they are back.'

'The twins? Those useless twins that I had to chase all over London once, and that sneaked in 221B at another time?'

'The ones and only – being two as they are – and this time they have been playing the advantage of their home turf.'

'You knew this all along?' I start feeling aggravated. The insufferable detective just nods, angering me the more.

'I recognised them when we sat at the cafe that first day', he says, mysteriously.

'The twins were there? Why didn't you tell me?'

'They represented no harm just yet. I applaud your preventative approach, but they could hardly have been apprehended by justice having not yet committed a new crime, John.'

'Right... Sharp turn left just ahead, Sherlock.'

He friend smiles, unfazed, as he makes a sharp turn to a dark alley between houses.

Several steps behind us, the pursuing twins do the same thing.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock Holmes stands tall and cold looking at the end of a dead end alley. Hands in the pockets of the long coat, curls brushing over semi-closed eyelids, under which quicksilver grey eyes shine with dangerous promises of war. He stands still, waiting on the advances of the criminal twins.

'Hands in the air, Holmes!' one of the twins shouts.

Sherlock sighs arrogantly, making an errant curl waver over his steely eyes in the process.

'We said; put them up!' the other twin shouts, waving his gun about. They are both armed, one gun drawn, they are dangerous and unmethodical as ever. In fact, in our past brushes with them, they often took advantage being so unexpectedly chaotic.

Sherlock lazily takes up his hands from his pockets.

'Toss over your weapon!'

The detective assures them, dismissively: 'I've only got one weapon and he's an army soldier. He's short but compact, he wouldn't allow anyone to toss him about.'

They glance at each other, confused. _That's my cue._

I step out from the shadows behind them; pinning them with my faithful gun to the same alley where they have chased Sherlock, thinking they were ahead of the game.

'Give up! We've got a score to settle.'

The dominant twin aims, cocking his gun at me. _No, you don't get to do that._ He's pressing the trigger, aiming right for my head, when I duck and swiftly kicked my leg across the ground, hitting him behind the knee, tipping him off balance. The gun flies off his hand, and Sherlock hurries to take hold of the advantage at once. The first twin falls like a dead tree, with a grunt, on the dirty cement. The protective twin lunges forward with no plan at all, bloodlust for revenge and heroism, and jumps on me viciously kicking and punching. Sherlock pockets the lost gun (and I have long done the same with mine, I won't shoot unarmed men and Sherlock will give me a hard time for it later), and comes to cuff the fallen criminal. Meanwhile, I'm staving off the second one's blows.

'Sherlock, any time now?' I grunt, out of breath.

Sherlock has been staring at our fight on the dirty ground, and leans in only once, extracting the gun from the second twin's belt, where he has kept it all along, completely forgotten since his brother took a dive. That's all the guns accounted for. With redoubled efforts I pin the guy to the ground and sit over his chest while restraining his moves.

'What do we do with them, Sherlock?'

He hands me another set of cuffs. _How in the world did those go past the airport's x-ray machine?_

As I'm cuffing the criminal with unnecessary force – they've hurt Sherlock, hit him in the head as he lay asleep, to search the room for money, valuables and advantages – the detective lazily warns: 'We must leave them, John. Lestrade and the local police will deal with them. Lestrade will soon track down this alley, and he won't be able to resist the impulse of abiding by the law.'

'We lost him a while ago, I think, how will he find this alley?'

'Easy, you'll text him the address, John. And that way we gain a precious head start. We must go, John! Time stops for no one and we've got an object to collect and deliver!'

Out of breath, I watch Sherlock's glee in the eye, and smile accordingly.

And, oh, well, Greg owed me one anyway.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock's use of a search engine on his phone has revealed a small antiques shop in the central area of Lisbon, called "The Dragon Tree Shop".

I called it a childish expedient, he implied I was sensitive because I had missed the obvious research. I complained about the quality of the mystery, he implied clues could be recycled and reused. I crossed my arms in front of me, he plainly argued that I was being childish myself.

We've come to small shop, where Sherlock has worked his magic on a locked door, and now we are at a loss to reclaim our last prize of the quest. The object to hand over to a diplomat is somewhere in a drowning mishmash of curiosities, antiques and quirky knickknacks.

I take a tired seat over a large sized travelling trunk of some vintage jazz band, going by the old posters, browned by age and abundant layers of fossilized glue, stuck over the surface of it.

'What are you doing?' the agitated detective snaps, over his shoulder, startling me.

'Taking a seat, while you look for your object. You followed all the leads, you deduced everything that was available; it's hardly going to be John Watson who finds the object now.'

He frowns, displeased. _Is he really that oblivious to my un-genius status?_

'Why not?' he asks, aiming for a Switzerland type of neutrality. Under the surface some annoyed irritation.

 _What have I done, now?_

I squint. 'You're kidding me, now?'

'Indulge me, John. I think better aloud, you give that a try, will you?'

I blink. _Well, he's asking nicely..._

'The first clue was a bottle of red ink, from an exotic tree. Or was the clue the coin we got at the greenhouse?' I double back.

'The rich, deep and rare dye, John. The token is metaphorical payment here at the shop.'

'Finally we got a wooden chest with a musical score. That lead us here, more specifically to what we should look for once here.'

'A musical piece for one only instrument', the musician points out what is so obvious to him, with intensity.

'What instrument?'

'Good, John. You are definitely getting warmer.'

I groan at once.

'Not with the charades again!'

'This is a game you have not played with me yet.' I frown, is that a complaint, or an enticement?

'Are the two clues connected?' I guess.

His voice deepens to almost a growl. 'You are boiling hot now, John.'

'A musical instrument with a red colour? No, wait! A very old musical instrument that would have red blood general ink applied to its surface. So, not metal; probably wood. Part of the antique varnish blend. Not something big as a piano, needs to be something transportable. Some instrument that fares well under solo performances. Apart from a violin like yours, Sherlock, what else could there be?' _Several, I'd expect._

Sherlock eyes me with precious wonder and deep warmth in his engaged eyes. 'You are so hot, John.'

I blink. Oh, yes, charades. Otherwise that would have been disconcerting.

'It's bloody charades, this; not case solving!' I protest.

He shrugs, implying it's inconsequential.

I spring from my seat as if it was burning me all of a sudden. Looking back on it I babble, incredulous: 'Not here, surely not where anyone could find it!'

'Open the trunk, John', the detective invites me. I take a deeper breath and do so, carefully.

There are deep crimson curtains strewn in there, and atop a violin case, open and revealing a beautifully crafted violin, like a pearl nestled inside the oyster shell.

Sherlock takes the precious violin in his hands – the object we are expected to hand over to a diplomat for the success in our case. A gentle brush of fingertips studies the wooden body, soft and tinged with a deep rusty coloured varnish. Then he takes up the bow and studies with a precision nearing obsession the tenseness. The musician sighs audibly, confirming to his audience of one, that this piece must indeed be a masterpiece; priceless and unique.

In the crammed little store full of eclectic decor, antiques and modern collectibles alike, my friend is strangely and blissfully tranquil. I have, in many occasions, noticed how Sherlock's shoulders sag just a touch, or his demeanour stiffens a bit, when faced with such overcrowded sceneries, as in a crime scene for instance. Baker Street aside – for that incredible explosion of objects and ideas is of his own making, and mine to a degree, and is mostly unalterable, and signifies home to him – Sherlock reacts to overstimulation with a hyperactive's knee jerk reaction of stunned shock and then absorbs the _mess_ , clouding his own ideas and thoughts. Endless frenetic deductions haunting his never at peace mind.

Here, at a corner shop of tourist oriented paraphernalia, Sherlock is oddly calm and grounded. No stiffening, no barely concealed grimace as his mind fires high speed deductions at all times, each screaming for his full attention until properly catalogued and dismissed by the genius.

Here, Sherlock has found his grounding in our quest object; a beautiful and exquisite violin, an antique masterpiece that time has only made richer and more special.

I know he must be missing his own at home.

The surrogate violin being lavished with affection and praise by the nimble fingertips of the musician is our ticket to end the Lisbon case.

Its tune, driven expertly by the consulting detective is so familiar. I recognise it from restless nights, strange timings for Sherlock's whimsical melody sprees as they may have been, that oddly coincided with my inner turmoil, rescuing me from my nightmares, bringing me home safely.

As I look about in the shop to allow Sherlock the opportunity to enjoy his musical soliloquy, I fancy that he follows me about with piercing green eyes under hooded lids, that he is somehow offering me that constant and beautiful melody.

It could have been my song in Baker Street; it's being gently given to me here in Lisbon.

I wish for a moment we could stay endlessly in this blissful respite in the thrilling chase. Here we are grounded and at peace.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	112. Chapter 112

_A/N: You can't always get what you want. -csf_

* * *

 _ **9.**_

 _Damn it, Sherlock!_

That's hardly fair, he's got bloody long legs!

My detective friend never slowed down, not for me and not for our friendly neighbourhood pursuer. Lestrade was jogging after us, as a special elder Holmes envoy, straining to keep up with us on a platform full of people and luggage.

I felt bad for Greg, but he had just made a run for Sherlock's bag, and he'd have made it too, if I hadn't tackled him to the ground. Some passers-by scurried off frightened, most just took sides and cheered on for Greg, the audacity of the manoeuvre impressing them. Like I said, I tackled him to the ground; just before he shouted "Police!" – whether an identification of his professionsal quality, or a cry for help. People around us shook their heads, young mothers got their children out of the way, and a few rebellious youngsters shouted incentives our way, cheering along. All in all, the locals seemed unimpressed that some foreign police force would butt in, with plain clothes and no local representative. That is, if they believed Greg. Anyone can shout "Police"... _Sort of._

Sherlock shouted my name, cutting through the turmoil. I turned my head. _He wouldn't wait._ Holding onto the open carriage door of a departing train, a hand stretched out my way, a devilish flurry whirling his curls.

 _Damn it._

I released Greg and hurried off to my runaway mate. My shorter legs giving it all I had in me, dodging people and luggage left and right. As the train picked up speed and we approached a tunnel at the end of the platform finally our hands connected. He yanked me in just in the nick of time, as I ran out of platform.

I was out of breath, leaning against the solid presence of my best friend and whiplashed by the wind from the open door that Sherlock has yet to close, when I realised I had left my luggage on the platform.

 _Damn it, Sherlock._

 _ **.**_

'Do you think we lost them?' I ask Sherlock in a tight whisper as my friend walks princely about the train carriages, selecting some empty space for us to settle. 'I didn't see Mycroft anywhere. He could be on this very train, and Greg was just a decoy, sacrificed to the game, left behind without a second thought.' _Mycroft would do that too. It's sort of a Holmes thing to do. Luckily, my Holmes doesn't do that any more._

Sherlock quietly stops by an empty compartment, impervious to my anxiety. Taking care to look down one end of the train, and then over my shoulder to the other (he knows I hate it when he takes easy advantage of my height!) he slides open the door and hushes me in.

'Sherlock, we can't just take a place on this train, it's theft!'

'Nonsense, John. I just bought us the tickets', he claims, flashing me his phone; too fast for me to see anything.

I lower my voice to a whisper. 'Are we even going in the right direction?'

'Naturally, John. I took advantage of your timely diversion to ascertain a route to Casablanca by train.'

 _Oh_. I sigh tiredly. 'Right.'

'Shoulder?' Sherlock asks out loud, only as he closes the sliding door on our sleeper cabin.

I scowl at the thought, but grudgingly admit: 'Strained it a bit too much pulling myself in. How in the world did you keep the train doors open for me? The whole system is supposed to shut down for safety reasons if any of the doors is not locked properly!'

'Ah, but all systems are fallible so long as they rely on machines alone', he lectures. I frown, confused. _Thought that it was the other way round. Human error and sentiment; and logical machines keeping mathematical precision._ 'Don't tell anyone but I used a powerful neodymium magnet to deceive the doors electromagnetic circuit, tricking it into believing the doors had met in the middle and completing the electrical circuit within. It wouldn't have worked if the train supervisor hadn't already gone back inside, unaware of my meddling. Inside the train and at the platform only passengers and greeters noticed us, and none of them cared the enough to denounce us straight way. A couple of spinsters smiled our way, deceived by romantic notions imposed by decades of classic train farewell tropes.'

'You hacked the train doors?' I focus on the essential. His upper lip trembled as if he was displeased by my reaction. Admiration, that's what he hoped for. _Hell, yes. That was phenomenal, Sherlock!_

The gratified detective smiles unabashedly to the far corner, in this simile of a room on track wheels, including bunk beds and a corner table. There are curtains closing each bunk bed compartment into near privacy, drawn back at the moment to allow us to see a foam mattress and some standard issue bed matching the colour of the dividing curtains. On the other side, Sherlock deposits the violin case over the small formica table with upholstered seats, all nailed to the floor. In fact, that's probably a good precaution; as the train speeds up, the train tracks trepidation multiplies about us.

'I'm glad you managed to grab on to the violin, Sherlock.'

He nods, responsibly. 'I am sorry about your bags. You are ordinarily very attached to your jumpers, so I can only assume their loss will be temporarily mourned.'

 _The git._ I smile against all my conscious efforts.

'It was worth it. We can always get new things, and all of significant importance we carry with us.' I rub my sore shoulder, as I realise my tablets were in the backpack. _My bad_ ; I should have been more careful.

Sherlock eyes me, as he assents, but pursues a different line of thought:

'Only you, John, would be so careless as to allow yourself to almost fall out of a rooftop.'

I grimace. ' _Careless_ is leaving the milk out of the fridge overnight, Sherlock.'

For once, he seems impervious to a correction. 'I'm trusting you not to repeat such appalling idea, John.'

That makes me chuckle softly; _I'll try_. Unfortunately, my subtle movements jar my strained shoulder and I flinch, turning my face to hide it from Sherlock's almighty scrutiny.

My friend approaches me in soft, subdued footsteps. 'Would you like some help with that now, or should I call Mycroft?' he asks me, impassive.

'Don't be daft, of course I want you.' There's some hurt in my voice now. I didn't even asked to be saved, why is Sherlock acting so self-righteously jealous?

He hums agreeably, and finally breeches the full distance between us. 'Get on the bed, John', he directs me, while grabbing and pulling up all available pillows in the room. He makes me sit next to them, and sits by my side, directing me until I've just about have my back turned on him. 'Let me see if I can loosen up those locked muscles on your shoulder, John.'

Sherlock waits until I brace myself and nod, and only then he brings soft fingertips to the thin fabric over my old injury. The one he knows never healed properly and still brings me trouble from time to time.

I groan as he presses in a bit harder, and immediately he releases the tender muscles as if it had burned him.

Glancing over my shoulder, I must apologise at once. 'Sorry, it's just...' I start. 'It was a bit unexpected, that.'

He hums, and deftly brings a hand around my chest to unbutton my shirt. The other hand is kept reassuringly over my good shoulder, and only moves when all the buttons have come loose and my shirt drops by my sides. His hand then presses me forward, inviting me to collapse over the mountain of pillows before me.

I lean in measuredly, instead.

Sherlock's beautiful violinist fingers come to make direct contact against my back as soon as he drapes my shirt away from my injury. They are light in touch, reverential in care, methodical as they roam my back, getting me used to their constant presence, before they inch towards my old scar. I tense slightly and Sherlock just leans over and asks, softly, of me – _Trust me, John_.

A soft enquiring fingertip touches the epicentre of devastation to assess my reaction, I gather. It gives me goose bumps but it's not particularly painful after all these years. More of a lump of haggard tissue, a messy regeneration of cells to cover a bullet hole. _Looks worse at the front, anyway._ Sherlock waits a few moments, gaging my reaction, before he sighs softly.

What happens next should never have surprised me. He presses and kneads about the scar and sore muscles, loosening the accumulated blood and stretching the cells. I raise an eyebrow, and grimace as I expect the worse. Instead, I almost let a moan escape from my throat. It feels heavenly, and Sherlock seems to know what he's doing. In years of physical therapy with regular massages, never has anyone acted so much as if they knew exactly the devastation inside, so precisely soothing it, and chasing it away.

I melt onto the pillows as Sherlock ministers his skilful massage, looming ever so slightly over me.

'Where on earth did you learn to do that?' I mumble to the pillow. It comes out muffled and distorted but I couldn't care. I have no care left in the world while those beautiful fingers untangle the muscles in my damaged shoulder.

'Shush, John. Just relax.'

I mumble something unintelligible, the pillow becoming my only confidant.

Behind me, Sherlock smirks. 'I should make you say that out loud more often', he retorts.

I don't have the heart to get upset with his cockiness. I think I'm falling asleep, even if I fight so hard to remain alert.

'It's alright, John. It's alright now.'

No, Sherlock is annoyingly right; can't imagine Mycroft Holmes doing this for me. The two brothers are equal in genius, and it's their hearts that set them apart.

We're disturbed suddenly by the sound of a text message. Sounded like my phone, too.

Sherlock is sure to have felt the tension creeping back to my shoulder muscles, and he deduces the covert lie I've been keeping in 0.6 seconds flat.

'Lestrade?' he asks me, pretending aloofness. His hands still kneading the tender skin, leaving behind a core of warmth. I nod to the bloody pillow that muffles my apologies, and end up glancing up to the genius behind me. _Sorry to break the rules, Sherlock._

He suddenly abandons my wanting needs and without a notion of privacy he fishes my phone out of my trousers pocket. Sherlock's eyes narrow as he takes in the lit screen with a long history of texts. All the magic dissolves as he gets up in agitation and reports: 'Lestrade is worried about you. Mycroft must have gloated over his one gesture of near passive heroism. You should answer Lestrade; he may be susceptible to turning to our side. That would annoy Mycroft to no end. I wonder if that is contemplated in the rules...'

My beautiful genius is a heap of jealousy as he feels once again side tracked by another's concern over me. In the back of my mind I realise that when Sherlock got hurt there was only me there to tend for him. The obsessive genius paying me back doesn't know how to share.

He doesn't have to.

'Type back my reply, will ya?' I make sure to raise my head from the pillow so my words are suddenly loud and clear. As if reeled in, Sherlock turns to me, intense.

'What's your reply, John?' he asks, curiously.

'Oh, you can make something up...' I huff, and drop back against the top pillow, my neck and shoulder straining again.

Sherlock's fingers fly over the touch screen without him glancing at it for a second, then he tosses the phone halfway across the bed and – reading my mind with ease, apparently – he returns those magical digits to my discomfort, soothing it.

'You are in a very demanding form, today, John.'

I mutter an unintelligible pillow-muffled answer.

He smirks softly. 'You're welcome, John.'

He's making up what he thinks I'm saying; with incredible accuracy nonetheless.

 _ **.**_

I slept in late next morning. That would usually be a luxury I don't indulge in frequently. It's not in the years of army training that lay just under my skin, not normal on a case with the one and only Sherlock Holmes, and ill-advised when there's is danger about.

As I rustle myself off the thin mattress on the cramped compartment of the sleeper train we boarded last night, I get a bit suspicious as Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

Did he knock me out with a bloody incredible massage to sneak out?

In partial duskness, I feel my way to my wristwatch on a bed stand shelf and my back cramp a bit as I lean in. Well, there go the soothing effects of that massage. Either I beg Sherlock for seconds or I give in to age and lifestyle.

There's another reason why it's so bad that Sherlock's not around.

Pressing a hand hard on the curve of my back, I am starting to feel uneasy over the detective's disappearance. He could have been... _kidnapped_ , could he?

Is it against the rules that you kidnap your opponent and get _him_ to find the solution for you?

I mean – it's common sense, and _we all know how the Holmes brothers treat common sense._ With prudery and disgust.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	113. Chapter 113

_A/N: Hi. -csf_

* * *

 _ **10.**_

I twirl the pen with practised ease. Need to order my thoughts, find a meaning to a vanishing act and set out my best course of action.

 _Rule no. 1 – an unknown object must be retrieved by following a sequence of cryptic leads; this object must then be safeguarded from the opposite team and handed in for a reward to some obnoxious diplomat (probably too stuffed in a starched collar to get the object himself, even though he knew where it was, because in all probability he came up with the silly quest himself)_

 _Rule no. 2 – dirty tricks apply?_

 _Rule no. 3 – each team leader gets to pick a team player; this team player won't be told the half of the story and will be dragged along foreign capital cities where—_

I put down my pen and the scrap piece of paper where I was collecting my information, groaning under my breath. Sherlock has vanished and I have yet to understand if this is a planned event, if somewhere the old git is in trouble and awaits my rescue, or if he's just gone out in search for the restaurant carriage for a cup of tea.

He better bring me one too.

I have a nagging feeling that Sherlock has planned this all along. He knocked me out with an incredibly generous massage last night, and sneaked out the door. Casting a doubt over his intentions while displaying such generosity and care, only a true friend could. Sometimes I think Sherlock can't help it. He genuinely must feel vulnerable, exposed, and at a disadvantage when he's _nice_ ; and he _panics_ , covering up the niceness with a precarious, dubious reason for it all having been _a scam_. Hitting back, before I can point out he's been nice. If he always has an ulterior motive for his generosity then he can never be accused of having a kind heart. Insecurity after the fact. A carefully crafted act, as if he really was a jerk that never cared for anyone else. I could be forgiven to be easily fooled, to get angry and yell at him, or turn my back and leave. The ironic part would have been that he'd put me up to it, materialising his worst fears. But how can I have misgivings about his friendship when I have ample proof of a deep caring connection and a relentless warm heart?

I trust Sherlock, I always do and it never proved wrong. At least in the long run.

The precious object – some incredibly rate violin with a wonderful sound – is still here, in the sleeper train.

If I was asleep and Sherlock needed to go outside (fresh air? reconnaissance? restaurant? toilet?) wouldn't he have safeguarded the precious game advantage by taking it with him? Has he learnt nothing from the time he got attacked at a boarding house in Lisbon?

 _Is Rule no. 4 that the team player selected – i.e. me – must deliver the goods alone?_

That would explain Sherlock's insistence in making this case mine, as well. From the start I was more than the designated team player, I was an equal in the partnership; _just one without full access to the background knowledge._

All the while Sherlock might be in danger.

To hell with the silly sibling clash. This is beyond a bet.

Can't do it all alone. I need help.

I'm calling Greg.

 _The game's off._

I pick up my phone with the tight grip of a determined soldier on a mission. Not a grateful one, but I'll lose the battle of I can get Sherlock back.

He'll forgive me. _Eventually._

I'm holding the electronic device with trembling fingers when it goes off. I just about jump three feet high in the air.

The next moment I forget to breathe.

 _Greg Lestrade_

 _Yes No_

It takes me a couple of seconds to steady my breath. Should I answer? Yes or No?

'Greg?' I take the call. Why does my voice sound so paranoid? Do I really suspect he'd kidnap Sherlock and ask for a ransom?

' _John?'_

The rough, tired voice of the detective inspector is unsure as well, and it appeases me at once. Greg's tone is equally marked by a certain vulnerability, and at once I want to know what happened, how can I help.

'What—'

I don't get to finish my question.

' _Mycroft's done a runner. I think. He's just gone. I'm... I'm on the train too. Your train. We took a cab and got in at the next stop. In fact, we're – were – two cabins behind yours. I don't think you spotted us. Sherlock must have. Can't really keep a secret from Sherlock, can we? Anyways. I went to check up on Mycroft this morning and the place's empty. The funny thing is his luggage is gone too. He wouldn't take his luggage to go get some tea and cake, right? He just took his things and— John, I'm no child, but I think he gave up and just left me here. And, hum, maybe I could hang out with you guys?'_

Only at this point do I realise I haven't spoken a word during what was, effectively, Greg's monologue.

'Sherlock is gone too. I've got— Well, you know, the "prize in the county fair" with me. And if you're sure you're not scamming me— I mean, if I'm sure you're not scamming me, and Mycroft is really gone, then I think I'm supposed to take this _prize_ to finish the game.'

' _I get it. I'm supposed to take it from you even without Mycroft's meddling, pressuring me. Like a proof of loyalty to my team... That's messed up, man.'_

'I don't know about you, but it's not a game I want to play.'

He stops for a couple of seconds of backlogged silence.

' _You mean, you want to forfeit the whole thing? John, I don't want to win... by default.'_

'How about a co-victory? We both finish this together, to hell with our child geniuses, and we split the reward.'

' _Sounds great to me! But, John, you won't feel the same way once you figure out the reward is some 50 carats diamond, or a dozen gold bars.'_

'Like that's likely! The Holmes brothers are oblivious to money troubles. A lot or a little is the same to them. The reward may as well be an electric kettle for all I know...' I sound as bitter as I'm feeling.

' _John, are you sure you're okay?'_ the inspector worries at once. _'Can I drop by yours? I mean, of you want to hide the violin first...'_

I splutter at once: 'You know it's a violin?'

' _Yeah. Of course. Mycroft told me from the start. Didn't Sherlock tell you?'_

'He made me guess.'

' _Oh.'_

'You knew?' I insist, chewing on that piece of information.

 _'Yeah. And, of course it was rather obvious as I have you guys chase through the train station and you were now carrying an extra violin case since the last time I saw you guys.'_

'I guess.'

' _John, I'm not liking how you sound. Forget the case. Can I just drop by?'_

'Yeah, yeah...' I hang up without delays and get up. In mechanic moves I go to the door, slide it open and find Greg already approaching.

The inspector looks refreshingly honest, as he looks me back in the eye with no deceit visible.

 _ **.**_

Greg Lestrade is an officer of the law. A few chosen words with the train driver and a secretive network of investigation was set up. I could have told Greg not to bother. When Sherlock doesn't want to be found he can do a nice and neat vanishing act, and Mycroft shouldn't fall short. Still, as we gather in the almost deserted restaurant carriage of the train, several employees are looking out for walkabout geniuses, as they clean, make the beds, prepare food, control the engine and all the little tasks that keep us safe and onwards to our destination. I could have told Greg it's useless. Sherlock and Mycroft are sure to be proficient when doing a runner. They must have left the train hours ago. Maybe even before we crossed the border to Spain.

'John, you know what you're doing, right?' Greg evaluates.

I smirk. _As if._ My personal style can be better described as "winging it, with a dash of dare".

'Did Mycroft tell you where to deliver the violin?'

'No', Greg answers. He further grimaces. 'I guess I never asked.'

Greg and I are the sad first clients on the restaurant carriage. Too early for the vernacular pint, we receive two cups of tea. Black tea, as is referred to around here. See, DI Lestrade didn't know that. He looked surprised.

'Casablanca, I think. Never knew if that was some sort of joke too, but I don't think so now.'

'Joke?'

'You know, like the movie. "Play it again, Sam"?'

'In that case shouldn't we be moving a piano?'

Grudgingly I smirk. Lestrade thinks he's funny. He's at his best humour wits when the going gets rough. It's really a gift.

'And where to, in Casablanca?'

Greg shakes his head. 'No idea. Some old friend of Mycroft's, I'd imagine.'

'A diplomat, Sherlock said.'

'That narrows it down, luckily you heard that, John. Still, there's got to be a few.'

'British, I'd imagine. At the embassy?'

'I guess we can try.' The inspector doesn't look overly sure, but he too cannot come up with a better alternative. 'How long until we get there?'

'Another train, a ferry, and one last train to Casablanca. Over 350 miles from Lisbon. Should get there by night time if we push hard.'

'You have it all figured out, John.'

I continue my reasoning, dreamily: 'Not like there's urgency. Would teach the double act geniuses if we just packed up and gone back to London.'

'What do you mean?'

I smirk. 'Well, they did a runner. I bet you they'll be found at the end of the quest, bickering about something like the best water temperature to boil a tea bag, or something equally idiotic. They are utterly convinced we'll finish their quest for them.'

The inspector lowers his gaze, I notice. 'Greg?' I call him, quietly.

'Sherlock is your best mate, of course you'll do this for him, there's no doubt whatsoever no matter what you say. But me? Am I that desperate to finish this for Mycroft? He seemed like a decent guy, but doing this to you and me now...' Lestrade takes a quiet sip of his now lukewarm tea. 'I'm finishing this for the reward, mate. I could use the money.' He laughs drily, unamused, a bit like an old dog coughing. 'How mercenary of me.'

I feel bad for him. 'Don't take it personally, Mycroft has that effect on people', I deflect.

Do the Holmes brothers really think some reward money would make the deception alright, while they watch us from afar struggling with the quest, like two amused spectators?

 _ **.**_

'John, it's that train there, mate.'

'Nah. It's this one here.'

'How do you know that?'

'I've read the departure boards.'

'So did I.'

'And I'm a soldier. I've got orientation engrained with the basic training.'

Still unsure, Greg follows me. We're the two Brits carrying small pieces of luggage and a violin none of us could play to save our lives.

 _ **.**_

'Here.'

I hand Greg a bottle of water. He looks a bit green and very sure he's got enough of diatomic hydrogen bonded with oxygen particles. That is, water. Particularly with sodium chloride. Salt water. Sea water. He's seasick and the ferry has just taken off from the port.

I thought it made a nice change from the train, and the constant trepidation and steady beat background. Greg might disagree with me there.

'Professional opinion, Greg? You may want to take a plain back home, mate.'

He tries for a brave smile, etching on his grey tinged skin. I sympathise for his miserable state.

'Hang on, you might need something sugary to perk you up. I had some food detached away in Sherlock's bag— Greg! Where's the violin?'

The colour on his face drains away completely, to unknown destination.

'I had it right here! You just went to get me water. No one even got near it, mate.'

'It's not here, I tell you! Someone must have snatched it!'

'Impossible!'

'When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Someone took the violin!'

Greg eyes me with a certain amount of disbelief. 'That sounds a lot like something Sherlock would say, John.'

'Trust me then, I must be channelling the git.'

'Can you do the deduction thing too?'

'That takes years to perfect, sorry.'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	114. Chapter 114

_A/N: Sorry, it's definitely smaller than usual. I have things to sort out, so I don't think I'll be able to add to this in time to keep up with the usual posting. Thanks for bearing with me, however much respectfully scowling at me. I deserve it._

 _Ps. Never been to Morocco. Making it up. A writer lives a thousand adventures, huh? -csf_

* * *

 _ **11.**_

'There!' I point to the crowd. _I saw it._

'What?' Greg doesn't follow. 'And you still impersonating Sherlock? Are you going to spew out half a deduction and dash away in a frenzied run?'

I glance with confusion to the detective inspector by my side. These foreign landscapes are not agreeing with him.

'I'm not doing Sherlock, I'm being myself!' I snap. 'I saw the violin case. The one we've just got stolen! It was being carried by someone short, slight... _There!_ '

Greg strains his face with effort.

'Can't see it, mate.'

I can. I describe him succinctly: 'He's just a child, frumpy clothes, talking over to someone at a market stall. I think our small time seller is trying to sell off our violin.'

'John, I really can't see it.'

I grimace sharply. 'And they let you carry a gun? Have you been to an optometrist lately? Look, just trust me. There's nothing wrong with my eye sight, and gun aim for that matter!' I nudge the inspector forward as I start on a small jog towards the bustling crowd. We crisscross the human barrier, dodging old ladies and fathers with toddlers left and right, busy tourists and locals, mostly dressed in colourful clothes, talking loudly, gesturing widly, a few intersecting us trying to sell us souvenirs; extra special furs, silks and full room length rugs. I think I lose Greg at some point. _I'll find him again._ But I can't let out of sight the priceless violin that was so important to Sherlock that he went on a vanishing act for it. I must get back that violin, get back Sherlock, get back the life I love.

The entrepreneur teenager that doubles as a small time thief in his spare time had no success passing on the violin on the bazaar market stall. The older man might have suspected the legality of the musical instrument or didn't think it quite matched the assorted household plastics, foldable chairs, polished brass teapots, and bright silk flowers.

I furtively follow the dark haired teenager along the cool streets among rows of light coloured plaster and intricate window frames and tall wooden doors.

Somewhere I get spotted. The professional teenager glances over the shoulder to the street along behind me, tenses up and stiffens his footsteps. I tense too. I know he's about to do a runner on me.

That moment comes very fast. The expensive but hard to pass on violin in its case is tossed to some side alley – luckily landing softly in a pile of rubbish bags – and the small thief takes a sudden run.

Thief going left, violin discarded to the right. I need to make a choice.

I glance over my shoulder to the distance that captured the boy's attention. A heavily veiled widow and a fat old man with a fedora hat. I smirk at once.

 _Sherlock and Mycroft will get the violin. I'll get that kid._

I spring to the left, chasing the kid, right on his heels, starting to hold my side. I've got a stitch on my side and I'm not even laughing that hard.

 _ **.**_

'No. No. No.'

Stubborn kid. He looks twelve, fourteen at best. Slightly malnourished, street clever, too grownup for his age.

'I'm not angry', I assure him. 'I just want to know your name.'

'No. No.'

I'm not harming him. I suspect I don't even look all that scary. I'm holding him by the arm, not letting him do a run again. I just want to talk.

Luckily for me, passers by take in his scrawny and dirty look and look away.

'Mark? Simon? Chandler?' I guess wildly, rolling my eyes.

A clever light shines in his eyes. 'Chandler, yes, you guessed my name.'

 _Little liar._ I pretend to believe. Chandler is a name like any other. I just want to talk.

'Why did you take the violin?'

He instantly turns defiant. 'Big family. They need food. I sell the violin, they eat.'

I nod. He's being truthful enough where it matters.

'Right. You're coming with me, Chandler.'

'Why?'

'I need to go back for that violin, and you owe me one for mugging me.'

The boy sends me an old man's dirty look, but grudging and curiously follows me.

I've long let go of him. He can do a runner anytime.

Two heroes got each a sidekick at the beginning of the game. Now this sidekick got himself an assistant.

 _ **.**_

I pat the shoulder of the lost DI, finding him wandering the market, looking for me.

'John! I thought I lost you!' Then squinting, he adds: 'Who's _he_?'

'He's coming along for now. He's smart and knows the area. He can help us. I will pay him.'

Greg squints. 'And the violin?'

I skip a beat. 'Couldn't go pick it up. I'm assuming Sherlock has got it now. He was following us. Has been all along. And Mycroft too. They were easy to spot. Sherlock is alright at disguises but overdid his hand to hide his mop of hair, and Mycroft is just— Well, he's better at covert mastermind operations.'

Greg's eyes crinkle in amusement. 'So our geniuses did a runner, felt lonely, and started stalking us?'

I shrug. Chandler quips: 'Those the two weird guys following you, John?'

I'm surprised. He's attentive, this kid. Spotted them easily. _That will upset Sherlock to no end._

 _Sherlock's going to like this kid._

'Yeah. You saw them before?'

'Came out of the train. Shopped for clothes and a silly hat in the market. Then a fat lady came out. Expensive handbag, snake skin. But she had clingy husband. Then you. Expensive violin. You seemed distracted. My luck.'

I get lost thinking on how Sherlock must have been persuasive to force Mycroft to a silly disguise to fool us, while Greg fatherly tries telling off the insolent teenager giving him back a mocking stare. I get Sherlock's bag open and pick up a pack of biscuits, handing it to Chandler.

'Why?' he asks me, suspicious.

'You look hungry.'

'This won't feed my family.'

'No. But you'll get paid too. And not in biscuits. We'll take care of that when we get to the British embassy, like we agreed.'

'And your friends in drag?' he says. Behind me, Greg snorts a chuckle. Chandler tilts his head, innocently. 'Wrong word? English is difficult.'

'Let's say "in disguise"; but I wouldn't put it past Sherlock, for the right case. He'll follow us. Let me know if you spot them before I do.'

He nods. 'We'll do, captain!'

I blink. 'Actually, how do you know—'

He hands me back my wallet. 'Got my pay out already. No hard feelings. But I take you to British embassy. I like you. You two are funny.'

I pocket my wallet. 'I'm an army captain. I'm not meant to be funny.'

His smile just beams.

 _ **.**_

'Why vanish away, then follow us in disguise?' Greg wonders about the Holmes brothers motives, as we pace the winding streets.

I sigh. Don't know how to answer.

'Why come up with this silly sibling bet anyway?' I reply. 'What was it really about? Not the journey, or even the cryptic clues. It was about... teams, friendships, motivators.'

'John?'

I shake my head. 'Never mind. We can always try to ask them later.'

'They'll never tell us', the DI deadpans.

'No, they won't.'

Chandler quips in: 'You guys are nuts.'

We both stare at his honesty.

'Bad English?' he doubts.

I shake my head. 'No, not at all. You nailed that one.'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	115. Chapter 115

_A/N: This plot was very unplanned. Last part is here. -csf_

* * *

 _ **12.**_

Not-Chandler is doing good on his promise, taking us safely to the British embassy through a labyrinthine trail of streets and houses.

As Greg starts flushing like a red tomato under the relentless heat at peak hour, I order them all to have a small break. They don't want to take me on, but at least one of them knows I'm an actual doctor and using posh words like _dehydration_ and _sunstroke_ , I finally bully them into cooperation for their own good.

Greg Lestrade and I have formed an easy team, but as time passes by I find him the more suspicious of me. He's been watching me like a hawk, in a midst of fatherly concern and natural competitiveness.

I take cover from the sun on the shaded patio of some abandoned public building, the view spreading out away from the city and into the sand and earthy tones of the mountains. Lestrade and Chandler (our young helper) have gone astray looking for food and drink in the many vendors around.

Shielded from public scrutiny, I sigh and scrub my face, having a seat on the cool mosaic of tiles forming steps onto the patio full of exotic vegetation.

 _What's the point of all this, Sherlock? What are you trying to prove to Mycroft?_

My silent questions to my absent mate cannot get answers and I let the dry heat and warm air drifting by ground me. I'm miles away from London, from my daily routines, I haven't a real clue what I'm meant to do next or where to lead my impromptu team.

I find myself growing jittery so I mechanically reach for my gun, still packed away from sight under my jumper (and I'm really sweating keeping it on). I gaze at its shiny slick metal with an odd feeling of longing. I much rather have action, and leave the thought processes to Sherlock. Not really fair, I can do my fair bit of reasoning and deductions, but he enjoys doing more than his share anyway.

I'm taking apart the gun, cleaning each part before putting it together again, enjoying how the familiar steps of gun safety ground me.

'John? Mate?'

It's Greg, and Chandler, coming back. I just keep piecing my puzzle back together. Not 5,000 pieces, but they all form a perfect whole in the end just the same.

'John, are you sure you're alright?'

I nod, strongly. The inspector doesn't seem too sure, but glances at our new assistant and lets it slide.

 _ **.**_

Showing our passports, Lestrade and I were given admission to the British embassy. We said goodbye to Chandler – he never told us his real name – and I rewarded his loyalty as generously as I could. He seemed reluctant to leave for a couple of seconds but finally smiled brilliantly, waved me off in a military salute, and dashed away into the busy, crowded streets.

Nice kid, Chandler.

Lestrade walks in first, I follow after one last look about the busy streets. The embassy is a momentous building with lavish furnishings that would definitely best fit the decadent era of the film Casablanca, than a modern day society. Through richly furnished corridors we are lead to a private office, no less ostentatious than the way there. Full length draping curtains from ceiling to marble floors, unlit crystal chandeliers glistening sporadically and luscious velvet pillows in multiple davenports angled smartly in the room. A gentle breeze coming in from the open windows bringing an exotic fragrance of spices and mint to the dusky cool room. We could be on a carefully crafted movie set, and I wouldn't feel more the odd one out.

Central to the room we were being shown into, a heavy mahogany desk, hiding half the figure of a bulky man in a loose linen suit, dark sun exposed skin and a heavy beard. Close by a lanky, apparently the nervous type, assistant with hair combed back tight on a bun, slick with hair gel, and thick rimmed glasses. At a distance, a butler preparing tea, in the good old fashioned English ways.

I can't even hold in a giggle. The two embassy employees seem taken back by my reaction. Immediately they glance at each other. One in resentment in the other in wise knowledge. The ambassador just frowns.

Greg elbows me, to call me to reason. He responds well to figures of authority, being one himself back home.

I shake my head – _never mind_ – and look ahead again. Trying my hardest to be serious.

This is the reunion – in which the Holmes brothers await us in twin phlegmatic poses at the British embassy. Both looking blasé as they take us in, and our guest.

'We are looking for the Holmes brothers, they're missing', the DI starts. I stop him short with a curt gesture.

'No, Greg, not anymore', I say, quietly. 'They're here.'

The thin diplomat's assistant smirks; a very familiar smirk, a mix of fondness and sheer cockiness, as mad professor Frankenstein might look upon his creation as the monster learned to emulate his actions.

 _Oh boy, I'm really learning from Sherlock, aren't I?_

He turns to the butler and points out: 'Told you, Mycroft. John would see right through new disguises.'

Lestrade's clenched hand flies to my arm. 'Wait, is that—'

'Of course it is. They both are. The Holmes brothers have a penchant for dramatics.'

Sherlock's smirks deepens, comfortably, as he starts removing layers of his constructed theatrical persona. Mycroft looks slightly outraged and mostly outwitted by my sincerity, as he too sheds the extras, grudgingly.

'I guess it really is possible to fool the Scotland Yard', he drawls. 'Even though I have not changed my biometric markers... much', he corrects, peeling off some prosthetic latex chin piece.

'The violin', I carry on, 'was never the real challenge. It was all about this moment. When we would challenge our masters. When we'd take the quest personally and come here to find them.'

'I don't get it', Greg says honestly.

I look at the diplomat. He has sat back on his seat and looks amused enough to let me have the spotlight.

But what am I really doing?

I sigh and scrub my face with my hand. Immediately I feel my shoulder tighten painfully, reminding me of Sherlock's care-deceit-vanish act and making me grimace.

'It's all been about loyalty. Friendship. Who would follow you to the end of the earth if you just might need their help. Mycroft has a full team of highly trained investigators to do just that, on call. Sherlock... not so much.'

Sherlock's expression is one of faith. He gently interrupts me to bravely say: 'I've got an army of one. A Watson army.'

'Oh, shush it, mister! You and I are having a conversation after this!' I warn him, only half jokingly. 'Greg, we were played from the start. Even the Lisbon kidnappers, messy as they can be, were pawns on the Holmes game. How on earth did they find us? Easy. Sherlock fed them information. They were stupid enough to take the bait and blunder in their characteristic unscripted ways. Sherlock never planed to get hurt, to gave me almost fall off a church's rooftop. He planned them as healthy competition, to keep up the momentum. When I almost died, though, he called them off. He wouldn't have that. That's about the time that Sherlock knew he had lost control of the game. And he had to come up with something new. So, he improvised.'

'So... they were testing us?' Greg is pointing to the Holmes brothers in disbelief.

'Yeah.'

'And the clues we had to follow, were they a real enigma, or were they just keeping us busy?'

'Yes, they were as real as they get, but only because those two idiots commissioned them. To a five year old, it'd seem', I add, tartly, the ambassador's way.

Lestrade clears his throat. 'So, who won?'

 _ **.**_

The diplomat with too much time on his hands is lightly stroking the violin case set on his desk, with the gentleness of a friendly giant. I wonder if the violin was his to start with or if he just picked up some old mystery for our use.

'Don't be like that, John, we won', Mycroft states with faked pleasantries. 'We brought in the violin, that was the end of the game.'

Greg looks surprised. 'We did?'

Mycroft frowns. 'The teams have since been rearranged, DI, or have you not noticed?'

Greg huffs at once: 'So the new team is the two of you? Why am I not surprised?'

Mycroft is not getting away with it that easily, according to Scotland Yard.

'Two superior minds joined forces. As, in fact, I had predicted from the start. And, no doubt, my brother too. His chosen advantage was to call me every day. This keeping an open line of communication.'

I look over to Sherlock. I'm not saying anything. I want to hear him saying it. That he used me, that it was all a scam, before I ever believe it.

'Who won, Sherlock?' I press him at last, sensing the awkward stalemate filling the room. Declare your allegiances, break the standstill.

Sherlock shrugs, non-concomitantly. 'I'd say you did, but I'm just guessing here.'

Everyone in the room looks at Sherlock. He keeps his detached stance throughout.

Suddenly, the diplomat gnaws at the violin case, desperate to open it. Under all our gazes, we find the musical instrument case full of scarves and silks. Sherlock smirks at once.

'Wonder how did those get in there?' he mocks.

The diplomat gets up from his chair, apoplectic, turning red, halfway into a stroke. Mycroft's face turns sour, bitter. 'Sherlock? What is the meaning of this?' he demands.

Gently I start giggling. Can't help myself. Chandler went one way, tossing the violin case another way. I had to make a choice. I knew we were being followed and left the violin to be picked up by the Holmes brothers. I took the road no one would take. I kept chasing Chandler. The little rascal had already sneaked the expensive violin out of the case and prepared the set up to have me quit pursuit. Chandler has the violin. More likely, he hid it somewhere in the Morocco streets and alleys, somewhere he can return to, rescue the valuable piece and sell it to feed his family.

I nod slowly.

'It's a goner, I think', I conclude.

Greg spurts: 'So, no one won?'

I glance at the inspector. He feels double-crossed. Again.

'Chandler did, in a way. He didn't care about rivalries. He just wanted to get food for his family.'

Sherlock shrugs. 'Let's buy back that violin, John. He'll sell it to you. He's your friend. Besides, it's not like he can get rid of a speciality instrument like that all that easily.'

I blink. _I don't know where Chandler is, he's gone._

I'm about to explain that the violin is gone, perhaps forever, and perhaps for the best for it teaches is all a lesson, when something incredible happens.

The diplomat got up from his chair. BP still high, laboured breathing, but holding steady to more than his hypertensive lifestyle. He's holding a dainty handgun that matches the room's decor. Mother of pearl handle and just as deadly as any other piece of firearm.

Mycroft squeals unbecomingly as he takes in his friend's betrayal. Sherlock tilts his head, impervious to emotion. I groan. Ponting at the guy I declare: 'He's not even a diplomat? Mycroft, was he an actor you hired? Did you lay down the whole game yourself and made up a diplomat to hide the fact that this was your game, your clues, your win?'

Mycroft is about to answer, but the gun points straight at him and he gets drained of both speech and colour.

I shake my head to the melodramatics, and whip my gun from my belt, pointing it at the diplomat. I still glance at my mate. Sherlock nods, almost imperceptibly. Good to know I'm not in the wrong here. Pointing a gun at an embassy is a big deal if I was embarrassingly wrong.

The evil actor playing diplomat just turns his gun slowly on me. Sherlock growls in the background, and I know he wants to do something stupid, to get attention focused on him, to protect me.

'Drop it!' A young voice, laden with accent, demands from the open French windows. We all turn. Chandler.

The gun in the diplomat's hand turns deadly pale as he intensifies his grip on the mother of pearl handle. I shoot first.

The bullet explodes loudly on the tense room, Mycroft flinches. Then the ornate gun drops on the floor, still cold and unused.

I lower my hot gun, smelling of acrid deflagrated gunpowder at once. Lestrade edges forward to manhandled the diplomat, Sherlock hands him a pair of handcuffs. Lestrade quirks an amused eyebrow to the consulting detective.

Chandler comes in the room, looking awestruck. He's also holding a violin through the arm with a clasped fist. Sherlock smiles awkwardly as he goes to rescue the instrument with careful gestures. I nod at Chandler. _Ta._

 _ **.**_

What did we learn with the quirky challenge? For my best friend, it was a study in different types of friendship. He might actually try his hand at a monography on that subject; and I'll be thoroughly amused by how inconsistent it will be.

For Lestrade, it was an exercise on how Sherlock, the awkwardly unsocial genius is actually the one opening up the most to his partner, and Mycroft, the perfect gentleman with a grasp for social manipulation and cunning at emotions is actually a colder genius, keeping Greg at bay at all times. In that sense, Mycroft proved to trust Sherlock much more, even with Sherlock as the opposite team. Those two brothers are thick as thieves, no matter what.

In the end, Chandler proved his loyalty, and got justly rewarded for it. That intrigued Sherlock to no end.

He's still trying to figure me out, even if we're finally back in Baker Street, after a long journey back. The day is breaking outside the windows and the cold crystalline morning settles in.

Always time for some proper tea. Sugared Moroccan Mint tea didn't do it for me either. I guess I'm a creature of habit.

Sherlock is plucking strings from a violin in his armchair, and watches me idly.

I pick up the kettle but lower it down at once, fighting hard to stifle a groan and swallow the pain shooting up my arm. I find myself swaying in the spot only when two solid but gentle hands wrap around my upper arms, steadying me.

'I'm alright', I blurt out reflexively.

'Just drop it, John', Sherlock calls out my deception with absolute calm. I glance over my shoulder but he doesn't take it to my offensive techniques. 'Come over, John. You can sprawl on the sofa and I can see what I can do for your much abused shoulder muscles.'

'Why?' I squint. He halts his breath, as he senses the suspicion carried in my voice. _Well, it's not paranoia if it's bloody justified._ 'Last time you knocked me out to go on a vanishing act and manipulate me into solving the case, guaranteeing you won a silly bet with your brother. What is it this time?'

His eyes narrow. 'Must I always have an ulterior motive, John?' he philosophies.

'Apparently so.'

Sherlock smirks, as if I was right. 'What if today my ulterior motivation is to skip your grumpiness this morning after an almost sleepless night?'

I shake my head and bypass my flatmate altogether. He quips in, abruptly:

''m sorr—'

I stop short. Turn. Face Sherlock. 'What was that?'

He rolls his eyes, unamused. 'You heard me. I'm not saying it again.'

'No, you're not', I recognise. Sherlock Holmes doesn't do this. _Apologise_.

He doesn't understand my meaning. He insists: 'I'm really not.'

'It's alright', I accept his apologies, whilst openly agreeing with him. Double entendre, it doesn't escape him.

Of course I accept his apologies. I always do. Even when they are mumbled beyond recognition.

'It's not alright, John. You felt betrayed. Insecure as well, because you think I might do it again. Disappear. And it wasn't even for three years this time, but I suppose you didn't know that for sure and you were feeling insecure like I previously stated.'

I cross my arms. 'That's the lamest post apology conversation I ever heard.'

'I didn't apologise!'

'So you say.'

It's a tense moment when we just look each other in the eye and try to size one another.

'Did you really think it was okay, Sherlock?' I speak first.

'Yes', he replies in full honesty. To Sherlock an ulterior motive doesn't preclude the value of the action itself.

'And you'll help me out now, no strings attached?'

'Yes.' He's being sincere.

'Alright. I accept that.' We're okay now.

We both smile.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock's help lasts a good hour and floors me into an easy sleep. I wake up next afternoon feeling much rejuvenated. As for the genius, he's been playing his violin and flipping through manila files full of the cold cases Greg drops by Baker Street once in a while, full of a type of hope that usually gets rewarded by fate.

I blink through my sleep drooping lashes, snuggle better on the long sofa and sigh. I could sleep some more, before the post gets delivered and Sherlock finds himself a nice new case, and drags me out with him on a new case solving, adventurous spree.

 _ **.**_


	116. Chapter 116

_A/N: On a wing and a prayer. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

Sherlock Holmes, when on a case, is a force of nature. Energetic, resourceful, daring; a beautiful fiery ball of pure light energy. Millions of photons colliding and exploding in multitudes of galaxies and universes. A miniature Big Bang creating new universes, altering futures and time-continuums. The impossible is revealed in a magician's pass and the truth is exposed, thus giving way to justice and order.

When not on a case, Sherlock is an antisocial menace that simmers slowly, only to concentrate on the depths of his restlessness, until it poisons him into a dark mood where he sinks too deep, too fast.

All those of us – the Baker Street gang, so to speak – conspire to keep Sherlock overworked in his chosen profession, where he can be at his best, and save the world, one crime at a time. DI Lestrade brings in cold cases, when there's no interesting active one baffling the Scotland Yard. Molly Hooper invites Sherlock to her most curious autopsies and even allows the hyperactive detective to bring home the occasional souvenir to conduct some studies. Mycroft Holmes will infrequently consult his baby brother on some international diplomacy incident and the best way where a non-conventional expedient can be used to put things right. Mrs Hudson bakes Sherlock a round of blueberry muffins and recounts the latest Eastenders plotline so a bored homebound detective can pick it apart, while keeping an eye on him and easily ignoring the stinky sulphur experiments Sherlock gets up to in the kitchen to drive her away. As for me, well... Apart from managing his books, answering his correspondence (Sherlock has been known to sit on a closed case without notifying the client of his findings and actions, only because _the case is solved, John! that's yesterday's news!_ and he can't be bothered to contact the client, or collect payment) I occasionally give in and join the experimental madness _du jour_.

I mean, it's not just Sherlock that gets bored. I get bored too. 221B is great, and I have long strenuous days at the surgery, and when I return I want nothing better than a quiet relaxed night in. And that's most days. But some other days, I too get bored, and restless, and cranky.

We could easily turn explosive, drive each other mad. Instead we seem to complement each other, to bring out some childish streak on one another, and the world is saved from nuclear warfare by a hair.

Take today for example. Sherlock and I were really, really bored just hours ago. No cold case, no active case, no client, no criminal, no police officer, fireman or librarian in need of assistance. We were both prostrated on the sofa looking at the small blotch of damp over the window, taking turns to name animals it may resemble, like clouds shapes on the sky on a beautiful countryside outing. And when I said _Octopus_ Sherlock stopped talking to me altogether.

Right about now we are kneeling on the kitchen's linoleum floor, taking cover behind the overturned table. We both refill our guns with liquid ammunition. I wait until Sherlock crosses gazes with me. Silently I nod. He smirks before flexing an arm over the edge of the table and firing his water gun three times at the open window. Immediately he pulls back. I count to three and take a sneak peak. I shake my head. Two of the three targets are still standing. The third rubber duck was shot squarely on target and tilted over the window sill. It has probably landed on Mrs. Hudson's peonies again.

'I can take them out, Sherlock, I know I can.'

'It's too dangerous, John!'

I chuckle. 'Dangerous? Are you trying to put me off or lure me in?'

'Two rubber ducks, one shot left, John.'

'And dangerous; why, exactly? Avian flu?' I protest, and without giving him an opportunity to answer I stretch, aim and pull the trigger in one fluid motion.

The two rubber ducks would have flown out of the window, I'm positive – only some visitor interposed herself in the line of fire.

I hide back behind the kitchen table with my discharged water gun, feeling my cheeks turn bright red. 'Hm, Sherlock? I think I just shot Mrs Hudson.'

My best friend shrugs. 'You're the one getting in trouble, not me, "young man".'

I groan to myself. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson! I promise I won't do it again!'

The sweet landlady just tuts away. 'Boys, will you stop playing about? You've got a client. She's not getting very well impressed, is she?'

Sherlock keeps me hidden behind the table, kneeling just like him. 'We're saving the world from evil rubber ducks, she can leave us her contact details and John will get back to her... eventually', he announces from our hide out. I snigger along.

'She doesn't need to leave her contact details, Sherlock. You can come talk to her downstairs. She'll be staying with me for a couple of days.'

'She will?' I find it strange.

'Of course. While you solve her case. I wouldn't have it any other way. She's my late husband's daughter, John. Family is family.'

I get up mechanically from the linoleum floor.

'I thought your husband had been executed for several murders committed in the States.'

'Don't be silly, John dear. You don't stop loving someone just because some government issues them the lethal injection. This girl is like my daughter and you two are going to help her, solve her case.'

I clear my throat. Sherlock is getting up too. He's the one recovering the faster. 'Of course, Mrs H. But only for a bribe', he adds timely, overtly.

She sighs, not fooling anyone as she's smiling sweetly at Sherlock. 'Blueberry muffins?'

'Naturally', he assents. 'John, put that on the books as down payment. And while you're at it, put the kettle on. We have a client, can't you see? Oh, and Mrs Hudson?' He twirls back to face his landlady with the utmost seriousness. 'There's an evil mastermind rubber duck sitting on your peonies again. I absolutely can't think of any way he got there again. But worry not, we shall face each other again!' Sherlock finishes, looking over our new client and edging her towards the living room.

Mrs Hudson is chuckling away, as she leaves us in 221B with our new client.

 _ **.**_

She's young, tall, dashing – and she really isn't Mrs Hudson's blood. Different nose, eyes, hands. I'd say the only thing in common between the two women is their sex and shared memories trapped somewhere in their pasts.

Once, Mrs Hudson was married to Mr Hudson, some amoral entrepreneur, or possibly a gangster, from Florida. It's harder to believe now but they lived the fast life, they loved each other, before eventually things turned sour.

I don't know the whole picture, but I'm on Mrs Hudson's side. She says it was a relief when justice finally caught up with him for blowing someone's head off. That Sherlock was a godsend for ensuring her husband was convicted for his crimes.

I don't believe in guilt association by paternity lineage, but I'm keeping an eye out for this sudden ghost from the past.

Taking my seat by the fireplace, I cross my legs and angle my notebook over my knee, pen at the ready. Sherlock, I find, is studying me rather than our visitor. Was he waiting for my permission to start? Was he analysing my impressions of our client, relying on my instinct, reading it easily off my posture?

I look at Sherlock, and Sherlock looks at the client.

'Don't be boring. Being Mrs Hudson's protégée does not preclude you from being dismissed if you ramble, lie, whine, or otherwise disengage John Watson. He's my human barometer when I take on clients. He's so picky that he's got this morality clause that would have excluded someone like your father from our clients' pool.'

She raises a brow. 'Someone who's dead?' she retorts in thick American accent.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Not the orphan card, please! I'm sure a little scam artist like you can come up with something marginally better than that', he decries.

'I'm not scamming Martha.'

'That remains to be proved, miss—'

'Then are you blaming me for my father's deeds?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'Not at all. Feel free to do your own crimes.'

I frown heavily. 'Sherlock...'

The consulting detective glances at me, measuredly. Then he deduces out loud, directly to me as an audience. 'Where is her luggage? Her passport? A flight from the States, how many hours confined travelling over the Atlantic ocean to reach one of London's airports? Then the taxi ride here, to Baker Street. We'd have seen signs of deep creases on her clothes, oil build up in her hair, her make up would have been smudging at least on one cheek from leaning against the seat. Ergo, Mrs Hudson's lovely foster child has not come directly to her stepmother after landing. In fact she's been in London for a few days, judging from the bulky weight of change in her pocket, mostly jingling like coppers, which you know you don't usually get when buying the one paper cup coffee on the way out of the airport, John. She was so distressed that she needed to contact Mrs Hudson, but not in a real hurry that she couldn't sightsee the city first. Snap a few pictures, post them online.' Sherlock takes out his phone and with a few swipes he hands me his phone with the girl's social media updates. 'Who needs a stalker these days, when the targets do it all themselves for instant gratification?' he philosophies. 'As you can see, John, she's been in London for two days now. Only today did she find herself distressed enough to come find Mrs Hudson's shoulder to cry. You and I both know, John, Mrs Hudson wouldn't let a minute go by without pressing her late husband's daughter to our care. And look at the daughter's social media postings. She doesn't look distressed to me yesterday at a concert. Which, by the way, explains thoroughly the bags under her eyes, rather than sleepless nights full of anxiety. Tell me,' he leans forward, incisive, 'cocaine or ecstasy – and do you have any left to spare?'

'Sherlock!' I shout, angrily.

The young woman raises her pale face and counterclaims: 'I didn't come to Martha straight away because I didn't know where to find her. We lost contact years ago. After my dad died.'

'You blamed her?' Sherlock fires the question.

She looks away and skips the answer. I look over at the detective, and see he's spotted her conflicted emotions correctly, and their sincerity.

My turn to drive this client interview.

'Sorry, miss—' _Can't believe we still don't know her name!_ 'Mrs Hudson never told us why you need our help. Care to tell us?' I lean back and put the tip of my pen to paper. In front of me, Sherlock takes a deep breath and leans back too, his eyes caught up on me rather than our client.

 _He wants to figure out why I want to help this woman._

 _I don't know._ Maybe there's something about this fishy story, maybe it's for Mrs Hudson and who would ever say No to Mrs Hudson? Suddenly, evil rubber ducks' world domination plans can wait to be tackled.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_

* * *

 _2_ _nd_ _A/N: Nah, don't know where this is going either._

 _Any suggestions for naming my OC, please come back to me. (Don't like OCs either.) Otherwise she'll be a Chandler too, I don't care if it's a male name; I'm feeling grumpy right now, and I always make good on my threats._


	117. Chapter 117

_A/N: Thank you very much for the suggestions. Now I'm feeling like I'm letting people down because I have to choose one, so I came up with this intermediate solution, that wouldn't have come about without the help. I'm not usually into OCs and naming them has always proved difficult. But I wanted a client plotline, and deducing the client and Mrs Hudson will make sure the boys will follow through with their case. You just don't say No to Mrs H._

* * *

 _ **Part 2.**_

'My name is Christie. _Now_ will you take my case?' she argued coldly, looking on Sherlock with a certain degree of suspicion. 'I thought this was what you did. Took on clients and cases. You don't really look like you want my case.'

Sherlock Holmes smirks slightly. 'I don't want to _hear_ your case', he fires back, pushing himself to stand. Towering over me and the client, his smirk widens crookedly. 'Shall I tell you your case for you? The one you so aptly guard as a bargain chip? The one you didn't fully disclose to Mrs Hudson? Fine. It is, after all, plain as day. It's written all over the folds of your creased dress.'

'Sherlock', I warn him, mesmerized by his performance nonetheless.

'You don't live a nearly interesting enough life for it to be about blackmail or extortion.' Sherlock glances out of the closest tall window to the street below, looking disengaged. 'You dream about being extraordinary, famous, appealing – and your makeup excess gets you one feet in the door already, you believe.' He turns back to me, measuring me again, always me and not our client. _What is he up to?_ 'You have a strong backbone but won't tackle the problem alone, and coming for help is hardly the sign of a proficient murderess or another half-interesting criminal. It gives you the attention you crave, though. In return you need to bring to my attention a good crime – and you've got just that. More than knowing you've got something _juicy_ that will peak my interest, you look self-assured while playing the game. So its _juiciness_ has been externally verified at a high level. You know I will take the case because it's the sort of situation that has proved true before. It's _infallible_. All you need is to open your mouth and we'll be hooked. Hence all the savouring. It might just rot your teeth if you savour the sweet success any longer, Christine—'

'Christie', she corrects.

'Because you've committed the cardinal sin I warned you about. You were _boring_. Now your time is up. I trust you didn't hear the unmarked car – the double thread track tyres mounted on a regular city car engine – or the sound of footsteps on the pavement from shuffling heavy feet, a hint of compensation towards one side on account of the uncomfortable gun holster under their armpits?'

She gasps. 'They're here?'

My hands clasp on the armchair's fabric. Whoever she is, whatever her reasons, this is Baker Street. _This is safe ground._ My right hand slides towards the Union Jack cushion behind my back.

Sherlock's face contorts into a fleeting simile of a warm, knowing smile. 'Just drop it, John', he drawls. 'You don't really want to shoot the police officers, you'd feel guilty afterwards.'

My hand freezes. 'Police officers?'

He nods. 'Mrs Hudson's protégée has escaped witness protection, I believe. How incredibly slow they were to find her given all her social media updates foretells overworked police guardians that believed she only had the one phone they confiscated. Charlotte is not a criminal herself—'

'Christie!' she hisses, grudgingly.

'Not on this occasion, at least. But one look at the thickness of her mascara and one can anticipate she might yet be more than an ordinary criminal, there's always hope.'

I blink. Before I can say a word, two bulky police officers barge into 221B with their badges and disgust on display. One tall, one short; both slightly on the heavy side as Sherlock predicted.

I get up; ransacking my brain for a strategy to stall for time.

'Right. Tea, anyone? Sherlock, we seem to have more guests', I add, timely, giving the hint to those two butting heads.

The two officers look confused. The shorter one accepts the tea offer, the other makes an indecipherable grunt and leaves it up to me. Two more cups of tea it is, then.

'We were looking for this woman, she is under police protection. She needs to come with us.'

 _Mrs Hudson is going to be so mad at us if we allow the client to disappear._

Sherlock has taken up interest in his violin on the desk, locking it inside its case. He tilts his head towards the sofa. 'Have a seat, officers. Chantelle was just about to tell me the same fabricated tale she told the police.'

'Christie', she corrects, under her breath this time.

The client goes rigid on the angled chair. The police officers glance at each other and mutedly take their seats as spectators. One on the long sofa, the other doesn't seem to realise is nicking my armchair. Sherlock sighs.

'Come along, John. You don't want to miss the show. It's quite an act!'

 _You don't hurry tea._ Hurried tea is nothing but nauseating, pale sludge. I let the kettle boil – as I wonder why is Sherlock inviting the police to his quarters this time. He said she wasn't dangerous, something about her garments told him that. He implied she escaped witness protection, but the two officers are in no hurry to collect their priceless witness. In fact, they seemed to know just where to find her...

'John?' there's a slight strain in my friend's voice now. It's barely there to the ones in the room, but I hear it as clear as shouting out loud. It rings in my ears just as long.

My gun lies behind the second police officer's back, behind the armchair cushion.

Christie looks pale and stiff, even as she fakes a polite smile, accepting my offer to collect her lukewarm cup. As I lean over to collect the cup, I see what Sherlock must have seen ages ago; her handbag, on the floor, holds a very distinct shape that ends in a long barrel. I can get a confirming whiff of deflagrated gunpowder from her clothes too. _You don't get a fire arm from the witness protection programme._

Sherlock paces back towards his violin case, at the cluttered desk, tidying the instrument away, behind his own chair. We both know that violin is about the most priceless thing Sherlock has. He must be expecting nothing good to happen in this living room.

Three people in the room have guns and I'm not one of them. _Shame on you, captain Watson._

Sherlock and I cross gazes at last. His green eyes look guarded, troubled.

This is Mrs Hudson's family. We need to play the game.

 _ **.**_

'It's been ten months now', Christie starts with a small grimace. 'I always grew up surrounded by my dad's business. I never thought much of it. Looking back, some were shady characters, sure. Uncle Chandler always gave me a nice doll for Christmas, dad's right hand man once broke three ribs of this boy that tried stealing a kiss from me when we were ten, and our family physician had more knife scars himself than some on my dad's crew. But growing up in a tightknit family will teach you not to be judgemental of your own, if nothing else.'

The police officer on the long sofa interrupts: 'We haven't all day, Christie. You may want to wrap it up.'

She nods, without looking back at him.

'My dad was a family man. He wouldn't commission help from outside, not usually. But one day, he did. That was the day Martha Hudson left him. He knew he was off his game and that he would never find her like that. It was as if she had disappeared in a magic trick.'

'She had', Sherlock quipped in, quietly. 'I made it happen.'

I glance at Sherlock. No gleaming victory in his statement. Instead, a mundane fact being pronounced as matter-of-fact as he can.

'Dad was heartbroken. Despite it all – the arguments, the violent environment – he loved her, you know. His English rose, he called her. He grew distracted on his own business, and it was a competitive medium. He thought of packing up and leaving, but you can't really leave that kind of life behind. It follows you wherever you go. So, he outsourced his work for a while. That's how I got to know uncle Chandler a bit better. I was there when he murdered all those people.' The young woman in our living room glances nervously over her shoulder. 'I'm bound to secrecy until I get to tell my story to the judge.'

Sherlock notices, coldly: 'There's got to be more. You've got evidence too. A sob story wouldn't be enough for the jury.'

She nods, reserved.

I take my hands up to my hips, stopping my aimless pacing about. 'Is he the one after you? The reason why you need witness protection?'

She nods again. 'I turned on my uncle. He resents me for that. I don't think he saw it coming.'

I look on over to my best friend. Sherlock's face is an inscrutable mask. He could easily stand at Madame Tussauds without being discovered as a fraud, among the wax figurines.

 _Something is still not quite right._

Sherlock spells it out for me. 'Whatever evidence you had, you lost it when you parted yourself from it to safeguard it. And now you're in London. I take it you sent the evidence to Mrs Hudson, my landlady, and came as soon as you could to collect it. The fact that Mrs Hudson has you here and is not feeding you on blueberry muffins downstairs tells me she didn't lose it; she never got it. She wants me to find it, that's the case.'

I was struck by the raw vulnerability shining through our client's long tainted lashes. Now I look back on Sherlock, silently requesting him to help her, to give Mrs Hudson what she asked of us.

Sherlock sighs. 'You seem to have won John over, Cheyenne.'

'Christie', she autocorrects, mechanically.

'The police, however, won't accept me on the case. There will be threats and bullying – once they wake up from the sleeping pills John slip into their teas. Nicely done, John. Now I remember the usefulness of a resourceful doctor at my side.'

The detective gets up from the armchair, as I'm quickly checking the two sleeping men's pulses. One is drooling on my chair and Sherlock casts a dark look his way. _They'll be well rested after their nap._

Sherlock saw my actions, whether literally or he knows me well enough.

'Where did you last see that damning evidence you tried to pass along to my landlady, Kirsty?' the detective asks, grabbing his long coat from the door hanger.

She doesn't correct her name, maybe she missed it this time. He wraps his sharp blue scarf around his pale neck.

'In a bank vault. I sent Martha the key. She never got it.'

I notice: 'Surely you can prove to the bank manager that it's your vault, and you can access it.'

'Not really. I used a false identity.'

'Use it again.'

'It's gone, I had to get rid of it. False IDs are not easy to come by once you cut ties with the best on the market that sell them.'

'Sherlock', I turn to my friend, 'what's the plan?'

'Well, John', he starts, handing me my black jacket, 'I believe we have a bank heist to execute. After I get my first blueberry muffins from Mrs Hudson, of course.'

 _Of course._

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	118. Chapter 118

_A/N: I got a bit lost here. Hopefully I can pull it back together. -csf_

* * *

 _ **Part 3.**_

Sherlock Holmes, the master of disguise, has donned a crisp lines suit and holds a business man case as his one true prop. He stands in line to the cashier, looking aptly bored and impatient.

Mrs Hudson is in the bank too. She's chatting with the other cashier, as she searches all over her handbag for something she doesn't seem to find. She acts like the dotty old lady we all know she's not. Whatever her conduct, I'd wager it's been directed flawlessly by the great detective. He's been keeping me in the dark as to what all the other helpers will come up with.

The client walks in. She's _the_ _distraction_ , on account of her stunning dress (who wears that to a bank?) and incredibly long legs. It works. Both the bank manager and a junior employee – _they are the marks_ – flock to help her.

My pocket vibrates and I fish my phone out, intrigued.

 _Low key, John. Remember? -SH_

I gulp, reading the text message. Guess Sherlock's right. I'm not the best burglar.

As I put my phone away, all the atmosphere in the confined space changes abruptly. There's a tight yelp, and the manager and employee rush towards the collapsed young lady. Even Mrs Hudson's clerk is coming over. Like pieces on a chess board. I'm staring; of course I am. So is everyone else.

The manager calls over his shoulder: 'Is anyone here a doctor?'

 _My cue._

I step forward at once. 'Alright, give her some space. Anybody seen what happened?' I kneel by Christie's side, as if I had never seen her in my life.

Head shakes and incomplete answers. I'm checking her vitals; they are alright, both in real life and in our fabricated story.

I glance at the people circling the fallen woman. 'Some space, please?' I demand, sarcastic, as I finaly manoeuvre her into recovery position.

'Should we take her to our private offices? Should she stay here?'

 _Too easy._ Anyone would get suspicious. I shake my head.

'I think she's coming back. Maybe she skipped breakfast, and was standing here for a very long time, so she had a small vasovagal syncope.'

'What's that?' _They are buying it, all you ever need is some long medical words in._

'Never mind. Medical lingo. She'll have to get some tests done with her GP, but for now she'll need a chair, some monitoring and maybe some water.'

They nod at once, springing to action. I look around in the small bank branch. I guess we spooked the clients away. _Mrs Hudson and Sherlock Holmes are nowhere to be seen._

 _ **.**_

Like I always wanted to say out loud – but never could – we should always _keep the plan simple_.

And be patient.

Christie is all but patient, as we stand together in the smelly back alley of the bank. We're about to be smuggled in by our inside team members.

'Don't fret. Sherlock will come for us soon', I assure her, taking a seat on an overturned rubbish bin. I have my notepad out and I'm scribbling mindlessly over some pages.

'Why? He never fails you?' She derides.

A gentle smile floods my expression. 'No. He really doesn't. Sometimes he takes a bit long and I almost lose faith, but in the end he always comes through.'

She huffs, impatient. I carry on regardless:

'I take it there are not only damning evidence against your uncle in that vault box, but valuables. You are worried Sherlock might take a fancy at those valuables.'

She turns a bit nasty.

'I've seen your flat.'

 _221B is home._

I let that one slide. 'You shouldn't worry. Sherlock is quite the kleptomaniac, but he's not attracted to valuables. Forget the diamonds, jewellery or gold bars. I'd be more concerned with _this_.' I show her a small silver key with a number on it.

She pales in response.

'Want to rethink that story you told us, Christie? If that's even your real name?'

She frowns. 'Real enough for you. That's my vault key.'

'Yes. I wonder why you'd have one on you. Sherlock told me I would find it. He's not often wrong.'

'It means nothing. It's another vault box. And that vault box is empty, you can check.'

I nod. 'Of course it is.' _Like I'd fall for that. A gun, to get rid of us, l wager._

'How did you get that key? I had it in my pocket!'

I smirk. 'Recovery position. Sorry about that. The hippocratic oath tells doctors to do no harm, doesn't say a think about bank heists, though. Because this is what it was all to be about, wasn't it? Whatever Sherlock is meant to recover from the bank, it's not actually yours. Once Sherlock and Mrs Hudson got us in here, you'd knock us out and steal that something. By then the police would have come. You called them already, they are on their way. They'd catch us all; but by then you'd have hid the stolen goods in your own vault box, and swallowed the key. That left you stating your innocence, while Sherlock and I got slammed with bank robbery charges. Well, theft. It's less dramatic, but just as effective. My question is this; what about Mrs Hudson?'

She frowns. All of her frame tense, vibrating as she faces me.

'I don't know what you're talking about. You have coerced me to come here. I think you're planning to rob a bank, doctor Watson.'

I sigh and look down the alley. The first police officers are springing towards us. _She called them too soon._

'He made me come!' she states at once, feminine, vulnerable and sweet. To the first responding officers. 'I was so scared! He's got a gun too!'

The police officers look at me. I sigh and raise my hands in the air. I don't fight as they extract my gun from my belt, under my sweater. They look a lot more serious once they have all the guns in the alley.

 _ **.**_

I'm sat at a police station's interrogation room, handcuffed to the table. I've been searched, identified and they have taken my prints to confirm identity. They should have it on file, from some previous mess, or my time at the 5ft Northumberland Fusiliers.

My stomach only drops when Sherlock is crudely pushed into the room. We cross gazes for a second and I gulp drily.

'What happened, Sherlock?'

Our conversation is rudely interrupted by the arrival of the desk sergeant.

'Bank thieves, huh?' he mocks, taking a good look at the two of us. 'Are you going to lawyer up?'

Sherlock shakes his head. 'Not at all. That would be boring.'

'And you are the great Baker Street detective, huh?'

'I'm flattered.'

'Don't be. I wasn't complementing you.'

'That's debatable', Sherlock stands his ground. 'What evidence have you got?'

He points a stubby accusing finger.

'You were caught in the bank vaults.'

'I was sightseeing.'

The detective is as cocky as always.

'Picking a lock of one of the private boxes', the sergeant snarls.

'Just checking the security. You can't be too careful these days.' And the detective glances at me, expecting approval. I usually deal with all the financial matters, I guess. _Wrong timing, Sherlock?_

'The bank's close circuit recording programme has been hacked.'

Sherlock snaps his eyes back to the sergeant.

'Am I a multitasker now? I was robbing the bank and fiddling with the cameras?'

'Your pall here', he dismissively points a finger at me, 'was meeting you outside for a get away.'

Sherlock grimaces.

'He's useless. Didn't bring a van. We were just going to take a cab.'

The sergeant huffs.

'John here brought something to the bank. Your hostage. You had kidnapped a young lady, fresh into the country.'

'Why her?' The detective asks innocently, as if he was deducing his own case.

'I think it was her box in the vault you were breaking into. Funny thing is she says it's not. What we have is a different key. John willingly handed it over.'

Sherlock just leans back and smiles magnetically.

'It gets fishier by the second', he states, firmly. Then leaning forward, he adds: 'I think you could use a detective.'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	119. Chapter 119

_A/N: I'm honestly sorry I missed one and sorry this one isn't great. Real life has been throwing me an excess of curve balls. Part 4 is last. -csf_

* * *

 _ **Part 4.**_

The desk sergeant returns to our interrogation room at last.

'We've got a witness', he opens. 'The young lady swears you were there to rob the bank', the sergeant smugly reports. _It's his neat little case, and he's proud of it._

Sherlock nods, uninterested. As for myself, I feel angered. Christie double-crossed us without a second thought. That was certainly her plan all along. I should have seen it. Sherlock saw it. He was dismissive, distant, with our client. Then again, he's like that with all clients. I regret my naivety. Now Sherlock's name is tarnished by a bad spot of publicity, and so am I.

But how could we have refused this case? – for the traitorous client is Mrs Hudson's legal family.

I had closed my eyes for a couple of seconds basking on self reproach. I'm aggressively shocked back to grim reality by a loud thud. The sergeant has just got up, knocking his chair on the floor. The noise still rings in my ears, my heart races; he did it on purpose. He wants to keep us on edge, incoherent, unable to thread three thoughts together. That way he hopes to keep us honest.

It takes time and a clear head to fabricate a story.

Sherlock asks, looking away from me, directly to the sergeant, his steel gaze turning bilious:

'Where is Chiara?'

We both look at the consulting detective in confusion. Sherlock twirls his hand in the air. 'The lying damsel in distress?' he tries again.

I frown. 'For Pete's sake, her name is _Christie_.'

Sherlock dismisses: 'She keeps changing her name, how am I to keep up?'

 _What? No!_ 'No, you're the one who—'

The sergeant interrupts: 'Hang on, you said she's your client. You don't know her name?'

'Clients lie. It's my rule never to trust a word they say.' He shrugs. 'They lie about names too, on occasion. Might have been what she's done. You should check her prints for definitive identification.'

The sergeant nods, a bit bewildered.

'Sherlock?' I call him. I'm not following.

The detective shrugs. 'Nothing, John.'

The sergeant leans forward on the table separating us.

'Your client is in our witness lounge with her elderly aunt. She told us her story, all of it, so you can talk too.'

Sherlock shrugs. 'Didn't she lie to you too? Are you sure the old geezer is her aunt?' he almost singsongs. 'Doubt it. You really should ask her to prove who she is. Fingerprints or DNA would do it. I really shouldn't be telling you guys how to do your job...'

I think Sherlock is onto something. Or he's just buying time. _I don't really know. You can't ever know for sure with Sherlock._

'Right', the leading investigator in the interrogation room pretends to follow. 'Then who is she?'

Sherlock smiles dangerously.

'That would be telling you the answers.'

The police officer slams his open hand on the wooden table and snarls at us, before leaving the room in a volatile manner.

I look over at Sherlock. He shrugs, pretending he doesn't know a thing.

I groan. We seem to be in a very deep trouble.

Sherlock just smiles suddenly. 'Want to play "20 questions"?'

'Yeah, sure!'

 _ **.**_

We're being remanded in custody for the night, while professional and worthy officers compile a case against us. We are sat by a new desk, on a crowded office full of investigators. At this desk a clerk takes my personal details, and he'll be moving on to Sherlock's next.

The Baker Street's duo is about to be accused of a bank heist, Mrs Hudson is vulnerable at the hands of our fiendish client, and Sherlock is oddly quiet and subdued. _I'm really worried now._

'Oh, those are my boys! _What do you think you're doing?'_

I turn around. Mrs Hudson is getting up from the visitor's lounge sofa at the large office's entrance and she is actively scolding an office full of policemen, most double her size and width.

Quite a few are actually blushing bashfully.

Sherlock stops short on his tracks and stands beatifically waiting. One glance at his expression and I don't trust it. I get up too.

 _Did he ask Mrs Hudson to sneak in a master key for our cell doors on a homemaker blueberry muffins?_

I shake my head, that's silly.

 _Or is it?_

'Sherlock?' I call.

He sighs. 'Yes, John?' he replies, as one would to a demanding child.

'What am I missing?'

His breathing hitches.

'A hypodermic needle and a small quantity of sedative from your medical bag, John. Nothing that you can't restock easily. Mrs Hudson is a trained nurse, it's one of her multiple hidden talents.'

 _Should I dare even ask what he means?_

Before I do, two police officers are dragging our client into the station. She looks strangely groggy.

'Oh, goody', Sherlock quips. 'Will be home in time for supper, John!'

 _ **.**_

I turn to Sherlock Holmes and hiss: 'Explain.'

We're back in the interrogation room, this time alone. Sherlock glances at the closed door, smirks and leans so close that his breath waves my hair. He speaks softly to my ear:

'We set up a trap to Christie Hudson, John.'

I gulp. 'Yeah, I know. You told me what to do. That's why I nicked the vault box key from her and handed it to the police.'

Sherlock smiles, but there's a sadness about his smile that he can't quite shake off. Only then I notice: 'You don't usually let me do these things.'

'Don't take it personally. You're the worst actor, John. No – no, don't take it like that. It's the sign of an honest person and you wouldn't be yourself any other way. So I had to... play you a little. Not much. Nothing you'd be too embarrassed about. I just... let you steal a worthless key.'

As he expected I feel myself boiling at once.

'Then, why at all?' I open my hands wide in exasperation.

'Because I needed our client to spot it easily. Because she'd be at ease, and you, John...' he smiles again, this time almost softly '...have an honesty that can allow no deceit. I counted on her to see that in you.'

I squint and tilt my head, jaw set, eyes darting fire. 'You are so wrong there, Sherlock. I'm most certainly capable of deceiving you.'

His smile widens confidently. 'Like when you said you were sure Mrs Hudson hadn't baked us those missing blueberry muffins?' He tilts his own head, matching my head, pityingly.

 _They tasted nice._

'Like when I said I would never mess with your sock index again.'

He blinks. Suddenly he tries glancing under the table at my ankles. Tough luck, I'm wearing boots today.

Sherlock resurfaces with a slight paranoia; I won't ease it in the least, as it serves him right.

'So why trick me?' I insist. _Again_ , I might have added.

'Because I needed you to give the police _my_ key. The one that opens a box that is full of evidence implicating Christie – if that's even her name – in the headship of the Hudson's American crime syndicate.'

'Then her story as a victim is a lie.'

Sherlock nods. 'Obviously. She's the new head of the syndicate. Uncle Chandler has passed it on to her. More likely there was a coup.'

'And she used us to get access to that vault box and was ready to pin it all on us.'

'There was a possibility she had kept a gun in the box. I couldn't let her get to the box. That made it all a bit awkward. I had to trick her into opening the wrong box. Which she did. As soon as she ditched us here, being accused as thieves. She returned to the bank, Mrs Hudson was still about.'

'How could Mrs Hudson remain at the bank? Someone would have spotted her and tossed her out.'

Sherlock smirks. 'There was some dust about.'

I frown. 'She posed as a cleaner?'

'She's very efficient too. It's one of her talents, you know that. Should have been paid her weight in gold.'

I shake my head.

'So, Christie returned to the bank. She went for the vault box that opened with the key I got her. Not her own key. She got into your box, Sherlock. And something in it dosed her with a sedative. Made her more compliant to returning here, guided by Mrs H.'

'Yes. It was just a small, dosed spring. She wouldn't notice it if she didn't know what to look for', he states proudly. 'Mrs H was safe at all times, John.'

I gulp drily, still catching up. 'Poor Mrs Hudson.'

Sherlock scrunched his nose. 'Why?' I face him. He really doesn't seem to get it.

My friend's morality has a compass of his own, and he can't foresee how Mrs Hudson might have some distress finding out her foster child is a bad egg like her husband was.

Finally Sherlock catches up. 'Well, don't look at me like that, you're the one always saying you need to forgive family!'

'I meant your brother Mycroft.'

'That's even worse! And – no – obviously Christie is not Mrs Hudson's late husband's daughter.'

'What?' My voice jumps at that.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, leans back and crosses his arms.

'She's an imposter, John.'

'But Mrs Hudson— she recognised our client!'

'Nah. Of course not. What a preposterous idea, John. Mrs Hudson knew all along. But she wanted to go deeper and find out why someone was showing up on her doorstep acting like a long lost daughter.'

I blink, running the information over and over again. 'But she— I mean—'

'Mrs Hudson knew of the vault's existence, obviously. She did some of her late husband's accounting, after all. But she could never access it. Christie had the only key. And, having arrived from the States, of course she went over to the bank and had a look inside the box. Why would she wait a couple of days? She went to the bank and confirmed the box's contents. Now she just needed to retrieve them whilst having witnesses and a good story to explain herself. That's what she needed from us.'

'Why she came to us as a client, using her connection to Mrs Hudson to be sure we'd take the case.'

'I got myself another vault box in the same bank long ago for if such an occasion should arise. In fact, I got the one right under to it, by a stroke of luck (and just maybe a couple of blackmails, nothing you need to know about). Returning a couple of days later, one box in a wall full of boxes looked just like the next one. Or the one bellow. The key of which you just handed to the police.'

'What did your box contain?'

'Up until today? Nothing.'

'Sherlock...'

He smirks. 'Have you ever had a drawer jammed? In a chest, or a desk, perhaps?'

'Sure, lots of times. If they get too full. Usually of your crap, in Baker Street.'

'And if you had the most important things in that drawer?'

'You force it open.'

'Still jammed and the house is on fire now.'

'Okay, hm... Force the bottom of the drawer from the one above... Sherlock, it can't be _that easy!'_

'Took me a good while, but eventually I got through. Her things just showered down. I collected them. Old evidence of Mr Hudson's crimes, mostly.'

'But the key Christie got from me was the key for the drawer bellow.'

'Yes. I left the damning evidence – or enough if it. I kept back anything that includes Martha Hudson's name. I knew Christie would want to show a vault box to the police. Best witnesses about. And to finish it off, I just had to make it... interesting.'

'How?'

'You created the distraction. Mrs Hudson kept back the manager for a few seconds. I went to the back like an employee. A nice suit, some ease and a studied knowledge of the bank's architecture was all I needed. I know how to blend, John. I walked to the safe, opened it. Then the correct box, the one bellow the box bought by Mr Hudson. A little pocket file, a bit of elbow grease, and the contents of the top drawer fell on the bottom one. I replaced the top drawer's bottom easily, you wouldn't notice at first. The police didn't. They won't until Christie has long confessed her business. Collected the evidence I rejected, passed it along to the cleaning lady. Mrs Hudson was the one disposing of the rubbish, how fortunate. I then added some of my old evidence I kept for such occasion from a long time ago, and finally I rigged the box so when Christie returned she would be forced to a sort of chemical compliancy.'

I sit up straight. _What on earth could have Sherlock needed to protect Mrs Hudson from? The police is already aware of Mr Hudson's crimes, what could his widow need to be protected from?_

'Why do you think Christie will now tell the truth?'

'I also left in there a murder weapon, implicated in several of Mr Hudson's crimes.' He smiles, leaning back. 'Even the Met police can get somewhere with that.'

 _ **.**_

We gather back at Baker Street late at night. The fire is now crackling away in the hearth and both Sherlock and Mrs Hudson take cosy seats by the fireplace. Mrs Hudson is fiddling with Sherlock's pet skull absently.

 _I don't suspect he'd allow that to anyone else._

I end up asking out loud, as I join then In the living room:

'In the end, Sherlock, what else was in the box? I don't mean the damning evidence like a gun used in several crimes. I mean... Who was Mr Hudson and why did he choose a bank to hide evidence against himself?' I question, curiously, bringing the tea pot to the Baker Street's true bank thieves.

Sherlock plucks his violin strings, testing them for pitch. 'Perhaps', he replies dreamily, 'the vault box key was intended for someone else.' He looks up at Mrs Hudson.

She sighs. 'Yes. I assume so. Mr Hudson was a romantic. You should have seen the dinners, the balls, the fast life we led. I think he wanted to give me that evidence so I could take over if something happened to him, like some of his family killing him off to take over the business.'

I almost miss the tea cup as I glance up at our landlady, imagining her running an American crime syndicate.

 _221B would have never existed._

Sherlock takes something out of his pocket and leans over to hand it to our sweet Mrs Hudson. She grabs the brown paper envelope with surprise.

'What is this, dear? We agreed you'd destroy all evidence that could implicate me.'

He nods. 'We've done that', he assures her. Sherlock was her confidant and rescuer one last time. He slowly gets up and walks to the tall window, looking out.

Mrs Hudson smiles softly as I embrace her sideways, leaning from the chair's arm. She rests one hand over my arm, appreciative, and with the other hand she opens the envelope.

There's a picture of Mrs Hudson and Mr Hudson. They look young, dashing, carefree. She smiles at the sight of that still freeze in time. She was happy then.

Finally she looks up and smiles at us both, worrying about her reaction.

'I'll make you both a nice cuppa, and then it's off to bed with the both of you. It was a long day, you know.'

" _Thank you, my boys."_

 _ **.**_


	120. Chapter 120

_A/N: Probably three parts. It's been a rough week at work. Lets just say it's too bad John was not in the Bomb Disposal squad. Maybe I could have learnt something from John. -csf_

* * *

 _ **First.**_

Sherlock has been whingeing about his brother Mycroft for the past two hours. I've tried it all – to agree with Sherlock, to argument Mycroft's side, to apathetically zone out, and to abruptly change the topic – but haven't yet managed to derail Sherlock. The usual sibling rivalry has escalated this past week to what is now an unprecedented level. At least I think it is. To Sherlock, Mycroft is just being his usual self. His usual selfish, lazy, bossy self – and those were the kindest adjectives the baby brother used.

For the sixth time over the last sixty seconds I'm asking Sherlock to please be patient. And to stop idealising numerous ways to get away with fratricide. Which, by the way, is a silly thing to plot in front of witnesses. I don't mean me, of course, _I'd probably help Sherlock hide the body, he's my best mate_ , but right now we're inside one of those less than inconspicuous black cars Mycroft usually kidnaps us in. Well, mostly me. As a protest of the most possessive nature, Sherlock climbed in as well and now demands an audience with his highness Holmes.

Sometimes I still question the soap opera parody my life has become.

Most of the time I just accept it.

'We should be almost there now, Sherlock. It won't take long either, it never does', I try to appease the genius in closer geographical proximity.

He grumps something unintelligible and I don't ask for clarification. Better that way, I imagine.

I'm about to introduce a flaw to his "let's lace Mycroft's cake with poison and tell him it's low in calories" murder plot, when I spot something over Sherlock's shoulder. Something very wrong, and time slows down; something about to happen in the traffic outside the other passenger window. A car has just crossed a set of red lights, tyres screeching as the previously distracted driver tries so desperately to break, speed is too high and it glides on. It's heading straight at us.

Our driver is MI5 trained. He hits the accelerator, swerving to get us out of collision course; but I can tell there's not enough time.

Inside our car I unbuckle the seat belts at once and, even before Sherlock can react I grab his shirt collar and pull him down towards me. I'm already reaching over his back with the other hand and bracing the seat. Tackling my indignant friend to a forced protection under me, I keep him there. My weight on his, my chest against his curled back, as he feebly protests because he doesn't know – he couldn't know – the imminent danger about to impact us.

I close my eyes on the very last second. The car is suddenly energised by tremendous impact, it jolts sideways, the metal screeches and wails. There is a myriad of broken pieces of glass showering down on us and Sherlock yells. Immediately everything turns black.

 _ **.**_

I blink. Bright blinding light is all around as I come back to consciousness. I look on over to the huddled form I keep trapped in my arms, and release him at once. My best friend. 'Sherlock?'

He uncurls gracefully, glancing around in mild awe. 'What happened? Are you alright, John?'

I nod. Miraculously. 'I think so. And you?'

'Can't feel anything wrong', he reports with a blanked expression as he analyses the range of movement on his joints; one by one, very methodical.

I abandon Sherlock to reach forward in the car, to the front seats. I want to check on the driver. Only he's not there. The seat is empty. Same state of broken windows, bent metal and cuts on the upholstery. No other casualties.

I glance at Sherlock, who is still mentally tallying his bones and bruises, before returning to the back seat. I open the car door from my side and climb out.

It's a cool, bright day. People walk the pavement with no particular rush. No one pays me attention, or to our damaged car.

A nearby store window provides my fuzzy reflection on the big, polished glass. I find myself much as I left the house this morning.

I look back. Sherlock is already emerging from the car. No signs of the second car involved in our accident. Or debris from the collision. Still no passer-by even reacts to us.

 _Is this the Twilight zone?_

'Curious', Sherlock comments, noticing the same. It doesn't seem to bother him as much, but still he comes closer to me; as if we both knew by instinct that in this world on the other side of the looking glass we – the only ones who are knowledgeable – need to keep close to keep safe.

'Is that a vinyl LP records store?' Sherlock notices, behind me. I turn again. The shop window I looked at before is actually an old style music store. I hadn't even noticed.

'I think so', I answer slowly. Finally I'm noticing the fashion sense of the passers-by is a bit retro too. They all seem to be strangers and over coordinated in this great street gag.

I take out my phone and look at it; no network service. Sherlock takes a couple of steps towards a flyer posted on the brick store wall. A circus in Marylebone.

The date is wrong. 'Tomorrow is not Tuesday', I contradict the information on the flyer.

Sherlock is looking spooked now. He has the answer.

'Just drop it, John, because tomorrow isn't the seventies either. At least, not for the two of us. It's only the seventies for everyone else around us.'

 _ **.**_

'Where are we, Sherlock? How did we get here?' I ask, a bit anxious.

My friend is looking around, much less worried than inspecting the strange reality we've landed in.

'We're in the past, John, it would seem.'

 _It must have been quite a car crash, to have propelled us through Time._

'H-How?' I ask, in a tremulous voice. I clear my throat and give it another try, a bit steadier: 'How?'

Sherlock shrugs as if he couldn't care. 'I don't know.' He probably couldn't give a toss.

'Oh.' I notice the place is vaguely familiar, the more I wander about.

'John?'

'I know this place...'

'Neat!' he smiles a goofy smile, pleased. I look him over, inquisitive. Sherlock particularises easily: _'We're in your past, John.'_

 _ **.**_

'Why _my_ past? Are we in a dream?'

Sherlock ponders my questions, infuriatingly calm. 'Yes, it would seem so. And it's probably your dream, John.'

'How would you know that?' I get suspicious.

'It's your past. I don't know it in such detail', he comments, looking around.

A shiver comes down my spine. 'Am I dead?'

'Dead people don't dream. According to all evidence, at least.' As an investigator by nature, Sherlock keeps an open mind.

'Why this... mind's time travel then?'

Sherlock glances at me sharply. 'I don't know. A figment of a barely acknowledged memory in your subconscious have triggered it. Maybe you ate porridge at breakfast and taste is a powerful memory aid. Maybe you had porridge often as a child. You were too busy to acknowledge it, so you left that half-constructed thought fester in your subconscious, leading us here now. Or maybe it was a scent on the street, or a brief image on an advertisement on the telly. The odds are endless and guessing would be a random exercise. A more romantic view could state you needed to come here in order to learn a lesson from the past.' He now awaits patiently for my epiphany. I just shrug, blank. 'Worry not', he tells me, 'we shall learn the reason behind this.'

We start paving again in the 1970s street. Cars are noisier, but there's less traffic. Buildings are very much the same, for the most part having been built decades or centuries ago. Kids play outside on the pavement, so it must be either the weekend or school holidays.

'Are you sure we'll get out of here eventually?' I ask, voicing some momentary pessimism.

My friend looks intrigued by my reaction. He didn't seem to expect my wish to escape a scenic view of my childhood.

'You brought with you the world's best detective, John. Of course I'm sure we'll solve this mystery.'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	121. Chapter 121

_A/N: Still not British, a doctor, or Sherlock's best friend. -csf_

* * *

 _ **Second.**_

'I don't need to go to hospital!' I protest.

My statement would have been more impressive if I wasn't holding a damp handkerchief to my temple; and getting nowhere by using denial as a medical treatment.

Sherlock has been pulling me along regardless of my protests. We have spent the last ten minutes crossing a familiar London, travelled by older, heavier model cars, we past a snippet of a Beatles song on the radio that the presenter just introduced as a new album, we go past billboards filled with bright looking publicity of whitening washing machine detergents and bubbly soft drinks. It all looks fresh and new to me, and not at all like a reconstructed memory. It is incredibly detailed. If my subconscious summoned all these details, then it's proof that Sherlock is right and we don't use enough of the mind's potential on a regular basis.

He's long been training his mind to access all this information outside trauma induced "dreams"; or whatever this is.

Sherlock has brought me over to the old St. Bart's Teaching Hospital. I suspect he's feeling a bit lost too, and the familiarity of this second home grounds him.

Nurses in starched white aprons approach us at once. They insist we go through corridors, passing displays with information to the public about diseases like tuberculosis and polio, rows of bright orange plastic chairs parked along the flow of the corridors, and doors open ajar leading to infirmaries smelling of chlorine-based disinfectant.

Sherlock seems to know when to stop outside one of the doors, taking a seat on one of those uncomfortable orange chairs.

'Can you tell us how you got hurt, sir?' I'm being accosted with efficiency, dragged into one of the nurses' rooms.

Nurses are always bossy. Without them being as they are, hospitals would hardly run.

'I was in a car crash.'

'Where there other people hurt?'

'No, Sherlock is fine. I'll still keep an eye on him in any case. The driver...' I stop short. What do I say? _He_ _disappeared?_

'Have you walked here?'

'Yes. We weren't far.'

'Have a seat, we'll get a doctor to have a look at that soon.'

I nod, a bit bewildered. I've just realised Sherlock and I were nowhere near Bart's when Mycroft's driver got crashed into at the red lights.

Why are we here now?

I've been left sat at an old, sturdy metal stretcher. Now I get up slowly and go take a look at the corridor outside the room. Sherlock is still sat in an orange plastic chair. He's got his fingers up to his chin and he's looking blankly ahead, probably he's checking the integrity of his mind palace. I'm about to go interrupt my friend and ask him to get us out of here, when I spot a child on the other end of the corridor. He's a young blond boy with a fresh cast and a sling on his arm, and he really shouldn't be all alone. He must be frightened all by himself in a big hospital.

I toss my handkerchief to the bin on my way to the child. I'm a doctor first and foremost. Even in the Past I cannot leave a small patient unattended.

The boy looks brave and serious, cradling his arm with a stoic and resigned expression that is too old for his young face. I take a better look at him as I inch closer. He's older than I assumed at first, perhaps a bit scrawny for his age, he could be ten or eleven years old. Finally he notices me, with a sharp glance and a one over look. He stiffens perceptibly, still he smiles politely, probably assuming I'm a doctor here. His gaze remains guarded, though.

'Hello, there', I start. 'Fresh cast?' I ask, pointing at his arm.

He glances down and nods. 'The radius bone will heal itself inside my arm. It always amazes me.'

'Always?' I repeat, staring at his honest blue eyes.

He seems to catch his breath, but then squares his shoulders and answers daringly: 'I've broken bones before. Rugby.'

I nod. 'Dangerous sport.'

He shrugs, daredevil as they come.

I glance about. 'Your family?'

'Somewhere', he answers negligently. I take a seat by his side, curious about this child full of fake bravado.

'My best friend is a detective', I comment, looking on ahead.

'Aren't you a bit old to have a best friend?' he retorts.

I bite a smirk. _The little brat._

'Not really, no... My best friend has taught me to pay attention to the small signs of lies. He'd notice you aren't the usual rugby type.'

The boy remains absolutely calm. Too calm.

'I didn't say I was a frequent player. Or a good one, for that matter. I ended up on a hospital taking to you, right?'

I smirk. 'Fair enough. Can I ask you your name?'

'I'm John', he says with no reservations. 'John Hamish Watson.'

I grimace. 'Hamish', I repeat.

'Yeah', he agrees, resigned. 'And you?'

Can't really tell him we share a name and a childhood, so I desperately hunt around for a name.

'Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.'

'And you think "Hamish" is a weird name?'

I smile outright. _He's a right brat, this one._

And I know why he's here. Eventually a doctor will come along, sympathetic but useless. My sister Harriet will show up to drag me back home. What I recall of this incident, the first time around, is of a long empty wait. I must make sure not to change my own past. As each of those ghosts appears – a doctor, Harry – I must go. Meanwhile I'm loathsome to leave all alone this little boy with tear tracks badly smudged on his face.

'Are you a doctor?' he asks me, sideways.

'Yes. Well, not today, I'm not. I got a bump in the head of my own.' I point to my temple wound. As I expected, he doesn't even flinch at the sight of blood.

'Can't you doctor yourself?' he asks in sound logic.

'Sometimes I'd rather have a second opinion', I divert. My feelings on the matter haven't changed from an independent child to a stubborn adult. 'I'm also a soldier.'

That grabs his curiosity and for the first time he actually leans closer. 'No one messes with you, huh?' he asks more like one comments.

I hum, keeping up the soldier appearances for his sake. I know he's got his mind on how his arm got broken.

'I can help you if you confide in me how that injury happened', I blurt out. What am I doing? This is insane! I can't help him. Can I? It would change the past, but I know it's only a matter of time before this young boy gets another broken bone. And another. Rugby will be blamed for most injuries and no one ever challenges that. This is my past, I know how it goes.

'I'll stand up to him next time', the child states quietly. He seats still, looking ahead with too much weight on his soft features. Before I can say anything, a curly blond older girl comes running up the corridor to get John.

'Johnny! Come on, let's go! Dad's waiting in the car, you're making him mad!'

The boy gets up in calm, calculated gestures and politely smiles a goodbye my way, still musing under hid breath: 'A doctor and a soldier together...'

'I'll be seeing you around, John', I gather my wits to say. Have I been here before? Have I met myself in my childhood, thus influencing who I am today? Can this time loop paradox even stand by the laws of physics? Is this all a weird dream or something more? Twilight zone, I tell you.

Harry pushes my young self away in hurried, detached bossiness. She never really changed either.

I feel a pang of sadness as I see Harry leave. We never got along much but here, at this time, we knew each other in all the unspoken ways. We've let that silence infiltrate between us, solidifying into a permanent wall.

We weren't the closest or most functional of families. I guess some things just never change.

Sherlock is already coming up the corridor to meet me. His pace is quiet and solemn. At once I know something of his own is up.

'Sherlock?' I call him. Asking him to share.

He nods to the underlying question. 'John, I just saw my past self brought in.'

Oh. It's happening to him too.

'I just said goodbye to my 11 years old self.'

He smiles softly. 'I know. I saw him. He has your big honest eyes. It was a dead give away.'

I get up to stand by my friend. 'How old are you in the seventies?'

'Younger. About seven, I think.'

'You can talk to him. I mean, there's no time continuum disruption. The universe doesn't end. The movies were wrong.'

'Movies?' Sherlock has no clue.

'Never mind.'

'My younger version won't talk. He's on strike.'

I blink and smile. 'You were on a talking strike?'

'At least to Mycroft. And he was the one forcing me to hospital. As a power play.' Sherlock shrugs. 'He wanted to prove I could talk and I was just being stubborn and awkward.'

I chuckle. 'Which is a waste of medical time, and not an emergency at all, by the way.'

My friend nods. 'A little thing like that would never stop Mycroft.'

'Will your younger self talk to us?'

'I'm willing to find out.'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	122. Chapter 122

_A/N: Last one. -csf_

* * *

 _ **Third.**_

'This is your past now, Sherlock', I notice, looking up to my friend. I'm sat on an orange waiting chair in St. Bart's in the seventies and Sherlock is right here with me. 'This is about you too.' Then it hits me. _This is about family._ 'You had a row with your brother.'

Sherlock gulps, before pulling himself together. He can't deny me, now he has eavesdropped on my past. _Of course I knew Sherlock must have been nearby. He wouldn't have missed the chance._

'If we must', he claims, in a deceptive painful tone. But he's smiling straight at me, in welcome. As if he was appreciative that I could be together with him in this initiative.

'So... this must be your dream after all, Sherlock, and not mine.'

'Why is that?'

'Because I relived my past and didn't wake up. Logically I should have woken up.'

'Interesting', he ponders either my reasoning or my argument. 'Concussion is still a likely scenario on the both of us. Could go either way, really.'

I roll my eyes. 'I'm wasting my sleep with Mycroft?' I fake my disgust. Sherlock smirks warmly.

'My feelings exactly', he agrees curtly, as we push through to Sherlock's memories from the past.

 _ **.**_

'Sherlock Holmes?'

It's the original Sherlock Holmes asking this while consulting a chart. He's nicked a white lab coat for good measure. I just stand by his side, arms crossed in front of me.

The boy in the room looks determinedly ahead, ignoring us.

'He won't talk', teenager Mycroft deplores. 'How many times must I say it before someone actually doctors him? I wouldn't exclude', he's directing his words to the younger brother now, 'intrusive probes, electrical shocks or hyperbaric chambers.'

The boy's face twitches at that last one, in the spasm of an aborted smile. An oxygen pressure chamber is definitely a curious thing for the child.

Sherlock and I look at each other, and decide to walk off for now. We're already in the corridor when I turn back to the room. I heard footsteps following us.

The teenager Mycroft steadily looks adult Sherlock over. Finally he sucks his soft drink through the straw and, eyes firmly on the detective, he pronounces clearly: 'Nice try, brother.'

Sherlock blinks. I glance at Sherlock. Thought we weren't telling Mycroft a thing!

Mycroft carries on, less arrogant than I'm used to from him, as if age had later isolated him into a colder creature. 'Its not a big deductive leap, Sherlock. You look so much like my brother, you walk like him, and you even ignore me as he does – with no grounds whatsoever other than the joy of contradicting me in order to ascertain your independence. Yes, you are old and you are in the wrong time; something further highlighted by your travelling companion's clothes even if yours are more classic in cut – but those lapels are just _wrong_. But why do I bother? You don't listen. You never wore a suit until today.'

'You are sure I'm your brother from the future', Sherlock insists, with a fond smirk.

Mycroft looks impatient, shifting his weight. 'I have tried to teach you that when you remove from the equation all the factors that are impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – is the correct answer.'

I glance at my friend. Heard that one before, rephrased by Sherlock, often. I'd say he learnt the lesson alright, Mycroft.

'But you are just a teenager', Sherlock points out the obvious.

The younger version of the British government rolls his eyes. 'Next year I can start driving.'

'You already drive.'

He shrugs. 'Don't tell mummy, it would upset her tremendously.'

'John, make a note of that', Sherlock says, sarcastic.

Mycroft frowns. 'Who is he?'

'My friend, doctor Watson.'

'Your _friend_?' Mycroft is shocked for real. Sherlock snaps:

'Why did you bring me here today?'

'I didn't', he deadpans. 'I don't know how you got here.'

Patiently I step in as a translator between brothers: 'He means little Sherlock. Was it really a power play to bring him to hospital? Threaten him with tests?'

Mycroft mutedly shakes his head. He looks shocked.

I phrase, tentative: 'You were genuinely concerned that Sherlock had some speech problem?'

He shakes his head again.

'Difficulties communicating in general?'

'Of course not!' Mycroft finally reacts. 'He communicates just fine through that blasted violin of his. He won't let go of the thing. It's giving me a migraine, you know?'

'Then, why?'

'I wanted him to know I'll help him, I'll always help him, if he needs me. I didn't know how else to help, so I brought him here. Best specialists in the country too.'

I look back at Sherlock. He's not there any more. He walked out at some point in the conversation. _Damn it._

He should have heard young Mycroft's words. Older Mycroft will never acknowledge them aloud again.

 _ **.**_

'Sherlock, where are you?'

I'm calling my friend through the hospital's corridors. My friend is hurt, emotional and exhausted. My guess is that he has gone to seek refuge from an overwhelming world that doesn't quite add up for him all of a sudden. I want to find Sherlock and make sure he's alright.

'Hey, mate, where are you?'

An unexpected dizziness throws me off track, and I have to lean against the solid wall to keep upright in a wobbly reality. Scrubbing my face to keep myself together I'm startled at the voice that calls my name next to my ear.

'John?'

I must have jumped a foot high. Now I look at Sherlock who has materialised himself next to me.

'Don't do that to me. I'm too old for scares', I scold.

'You're not old, John', he tells me firmly. 'It's the seventies, remember?'

'Don't you come sweet talking me up. You left me with Mycroft. If you stayed and listened to him, we might be out of here already.'

'How so?' he tilts his head sideways.

'I confronted my past. You didn't yours. Now we're stuck here.'

'John, there's no evidence—'

'Got a better theory?' I interrupt.

He looks away, upset. 'I came looking for my younger self, John. I remember this day. I was feeling lost and... Just _look_.'

He flicks his eyes to the room, inciting me to have a sneak peek. Suspicious still, I follow his lead.

There, inside the room, there are two boys. One is younger, skinny and intelligent, and a brunette. The other is older, with big blue eyes and a quick smile, and he's a blonde. They are animatedly chatting about medical illnesses and a nearby nurse is not very impressed by the gruesome tone the morbid conversation about cadavers and rigor mortis is taking.

'Did I come back?' I notice.

'It's two days later. You have a fresh contusion and nothing will hold you back from life. I was still under strike, but you walked in to the wrong room and... I forfeited my action on the worst big brother in all the world.'

'So... we've met before?'

'I assume so. Or, at least, we did in this alternative disruption to the time/space continuum.'

I sigh. If only Sherlock and I had kept in touch, if it had been more than just a conversation in passing.

'I don't remember this, Sherlock.'

'Nor do I. Still it could have happened. Technically, I mean.'

I look at the one (and only) Sherlock by my side.

'Our stories complement each other. The boy that was fiercely independent and shut everyone out because everyone is an idiot...'

'True.'

'And the boy that would reach out to everyone while still keeping his secrets in hiding.'

Sherlock looks over at the boys in the hospital room. They are too absorbed in their conversation to mind us as spectators.

'I think they are just being themselves now.'

I nod.

 _ **.**_

'What about you and Mycroft?' I ask Sherlock.

'Ugh, Mycroft...' He deplores. 'He did his best, I suppose. I wouldn't make it easy on him, he has always been far too smug.'

'You've got to admit he's clever, though. Figuring us out like that.'

'Anyone can have a moment of brilliance, I suppose', he deflects with a smirk, just not to admit defeat. 'And Harry?'

I twirl a hand loosely. 'Bossy as ever. Too much on her shoulders, I guess. I should call her.'

Sherlock shakes his head. 'Nicely played, but I'm not one for the family reconciliation.'

'You still don't trust Mycroft', I realise.

'Nope!' he even rounds his O for further emphasis.

Finally I notice a shadow cast from the corner of the long corridor. How did a soldier missed that? Finally I get what I must do.

'Hang tight, I'm going to get a soda from a vending machine.'

'John, coins were different back in the seventies!' he tries to warn me but I gesture him quiet. I furtively walk down the corridor, reach the corner by leaning against the wall... and grab the teenager listening in on our conversation.

'Let go of me, you troll!' he squirms.

'Cute, but you can insult me better as an adult, Mycroft. Come on over. Sherlock thinks you have gone home to gorge on cake. He doesn't know you stood by every single day your brother was being examined by doctors. You also don't know how that experience affected him. Marked in him a sense that he was somehow broken because he was different from the other boys. What you do know is that one day, out of the blue, young Sherlock Holmes started talking to another boy, and the doctors said he was normal after all, just reluctant to be like the rest of the little boys. And that, Mycroft, you related to very well. So you promised yourself to the care of Sherlock forever, and protect him from the same world that haunted you, because you both are so clever that you are special. Am I right?'

Both Holmes brothers look dramatically shocked.

'Absolutely not!' They both say at once. I just giggle.

 _ **.**_

All in all, I think I giggled myself awake, which is not a bad way to come out of some lopsided fantasy land. I stop giggling as the second medication kicks in, provided by some attentive nurse. She then shakes her head at me, admonishing me in my frivolity and never suspecting I have that weird reaction to some painkillers, before checking my vitals.

'Where's... Sherlock?' I struggle to say.

She smiles, and makes easy conversation. 'He's going to be okay too, doctor Watson. He's on the other bed.' I look on over. Sherlock is resting easily, a bad bruise on his head and a sling on his shoulder. I guess it could have been worse. It was a hell of a crash. 'You know, we had this visitor a few hours ago', the nurse confides. 'Three piece suit and umbrella, a millionaire if I ever saw one. He insisted you and Mr Holmes were very important and should not be apart. In fact, he said – just like I'm saying – "the moment doctor Watson wakes up he'll be looking for Sherlock Holmes; in fact, those will surely be his first words". He was right. Spooky, I say.'

I smile, and let my eyelids droop a bit more. We're tired, back at the present day and the world carries on.

'Tell that stuffy bureaucrat standing outside the door listening in that I can hear his heavy breathing, will you? It's spooking me out. Sherlock has come out fine. In fact, tell him to ring Harry and tell her I've come out fine too, okay? I need a long nap now.'

The nurse quietly hurries off the room to have a word with Mycroft Holmes.

'Sherlock?' I call out in a whisper.

His blue eyes flash open at once.

'Were you there, John?' he asks me first.

I nod, carefully. 'Glad to hear you are not on a talking strike to me.'

He shifts in bed, and takes a few more instants to tell me: 'Glad you're not having more broken bones every couple of days.'

I gulp dry. 'It got sorted.'

'John, did we just share a dream?'

'Well, you know... When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth', I remind him.

'Yeah', he comments. 'Amazing. Remind me, John: I'll have some cake delivered to Mycroft.'

Can't help but smile. 'Harry might like some too', I agree.

 _ **.**_


	123. Chapter 123

_A/N: Still not British, a doctor, or anything other than myself. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.1.**_

'Sherlock! Seen my walking stick anywhere, mate?' I shout from the upper floor at Baker Street.

From his obsessive investigative work in the kitchen I only hear a loud crash of broken glass and fallen clamp stands.

I flinch. _Damn it._ I tried playing it cool. This mayhem was precisely what I was trying to avoid. A vortex of doom in Sherlock's emotions. Because I know he cares. Deep inside. And he won't be pleased that last night's criminals chasing got me limping again. Not a little bit either, from a sore muscle or even a pulled tendon. I'm a doctor and a soldier, I would handle those just fine in the archetypal way for both professions; by ignoring all and pushing through the pain. No, what I am experiencing now is pure hell. The pain is sharp, making me gasp for breath. I just want to roll myself into bed, pull the covers and smother myself till tomorrow comes.

 _I don't think I can handle this._

Pain as a funny memory mechanism. You remember your reaction to it, your category for its intensity, but your mind maintains itself sane by forgetting the actual hurt. And I wonder if it hurt this bad the first time around. If I was numbed and depressed and coped better because of it. Now I know what I was missing. I know that I won't be able to be a part of Sherlock's cases. He'll refrain at first from taking the most strenuous action on them, hoping I can still tag along, with a funny walk, out of rhythm. Then he'll start running off to chase the latest criminal and only notice I'm not there when he's about to cuff them and he – so young, and fit, and wholesome – could use a hand from me. Soon he'll face the facts. I'm not getting better. I'm a nuisance, a memory from the past in the better days, and he'll start gracefully allowing me to stay behind. Because he won't need me anymore. He'll be miles better off without me. God forbid, he might even get himself another sidekick; one with two functional legs and an equally happy trigger finger. Plenty of ex-military men about.

I stop the cold water running from the tap in my small bathroom upstairs. I mentally tally how handy it will come by so I'll only have to go down to shower. And eat. I can take a few days off work. And off _work_ too. I can be the upstairs ghost and if I try really hard maybe Sherlock won't notice too quickly, and he won't chuck me out for being a useless flatmate in all the things that really matter to him.

' _John, the cab will be here in two minutes! Given your customary prudery you may want to put some clothes on!'_

Sherlock's voice permeates loud and clear through the old and porous floorboards.

'I... I need a day in, Sherlock!'

 _It's started._

There are soft knocks on my bedroom door and it opens without giving me time. Typical Sherlock. He looks quiet and subdued as he barges in and looks me over without giving me any privacy. 'I assumed you'd rather a cab than an ambulance, John. I did not take into consideration how pale and clammy you look right now. Your voice was calm and collected, predicting a minor injury. I should have known, you don't call it quits for a minor injury. You got hurt yesterday. With the adrenaline surge you didn't realise the gravity. Today, with cold and sore leg muscles you know this will take a while to heal. You look frightened, though. Should I expect a serious injury?'

I turn away from his deductions, supporting myself on the furniture to walk over to the bed.

Between the chest of drawers and the bed my leg falters and I land hard on the floor.

Sherlock rushes my way at once.

My cheeks turn red from the oh-so-obvious failure.

Sherlock kneels on the floor by my side, where I'm scrambling to a half sat posture and massaging my bummed leg hard with the palm of my hand. He raises a tentative hand but still doesn't know how to interact with me. What to do, how to help me.

I swallow a groan under my breath, and scramble to my feet. I'm in front of Sherlock now, and even if it kills me I'm walking out of my room in my own two feet.

Tentatively I'm up and have my full weight on my good leg. Sherlock stands too, way too close for my pride, as if he predicted disaster.

I move my right leg forward, brace myself and take the damned step.

I crumple at once, in excruciating pain, and if Sherlock hadn't grabbed me in sheer minded determination, I'd have been too quick hitting the deck. Possibly injuring my leg further.

I'm left gasping in pain against my best mate's shirt, he's holding my up, allowing me to lean my weight over him, supporting me from my hurt leg.

'You climbed those stairs yesterday, John. Your rhythm was uneven, because you were tired, but I would have noticed if you had skipped the use of one of your legs entirely.'

I nod. Failure and embarrassment – I won't face Sherlock's scrutinizing eyes as I admit: 'Must be in my head, then. Psychosomatic. We always knew it could come back.'

'What would trigger it? There was no trigger...' He shakes his head. There seems to be no logic left on the world and he resents that. 'John?' he calls my name, demanding I help him understand.

'I'm sorry, Sherlock.'

 _ **.**_

Tests. Tests. Lots of tests. Undetermined, every single one of them. So they call for more tests, more anti-inflammatories, more pain-killers, more medication to help me cope with a physical pain. Only it doesn't do much, _because it's all in my head._

I deflate quickly and just give in. I accept the stretcher, the hospital gown, the ECG machine (no, of course I'm not having a heart attack, or a stroke, or any stupid unrelated major catastrophic illness). I lie back and hold on to the memories of the cases we shared in Baker Street. It's now over, but those memories – I can hold on to them. Make them last. Keep me company. Sherlock's gone already. I never believed he'd stay long. He's too rational and I'm too damaged; he knows I cannot be of further assistance.

Maybe Harry can help set me up somewhere.

I'm too young to go to some old veteran's home, I always thought. Now I question that.

The doctor walks in, and I turn my head at that. I have the shock of my life as I see the slumped form of Sherlock Holmes huddled on four narrow visitors chairs on the corridor outside my room, maybe asleep.

 _He's still here?_

God, do I need to push him away, for his own good?

'Mr Watson?'

I'm still glancing behind him. The corridor view gets obstructed by a parade of doctor surrounding some medical emergency on a stretcher.

Can't even volunteer a hand, do my job.

'Mr Watson?' he repeats.

I'm already nodding when the sharp correction ensues from the corridor. 'That's _doctor_ Watson, doctor.'

 _Sherlock_. He's awake now.

The doctor looks over his shoulder, fleetingly annoyed by Sherlock's presence. I briefly wonder what went on between those two.

'Doctor Watson. We found nothing wrong with your leg. It is quite possible that, as we discussed, this is a recurrence of your psychosomatic pain. In which case I'll refer you to a suitable colleague. Some therapy sessions as an outpatient might bring you the relief that you require to live a normal and productive life—'

Sherlock interrupts: 'Just give John the painkillers. I'm taking him home now.'

'I'm not finished!' the doctor hisses.

'He knows your speech better than you, doctor. He's a more competent doctor and he's heard it quite a few times before. In fact, we're pressed for time, otherwise he could give you pointers on how to better break the news that you and your medicine are big fat useless things!'

'Sherlock', I call him out. _He's spiralling out of control._

My genius friend stops tormenting the hospital doctor and freezes his blue eyes my way. Then he gulps and carries on, calmer: 'We want to rule out a physical cause entirely before calling John a loony. We'll appreciate specialists names.'

I know Sherlock is using coarse and very politically incorrect language because he wants to trivialize what is going on. Deconstruct the monster, so to speak.

'They'll take some time to book doctor Watson in for an appointment. They have their practices full.'

Sherlock shrugs. _He would easily blackmail them for an appointment in my name._

'Fine. I'll draw you up a list.'

'Alphabetical or by geographical proximity?' the genius asks.

The doctor doesn't bother answering, storming off the infirmary.

I blink. _It's just Sherlock and I now._

'Still hurting?' he questions, somewhere towards a window. The view is unimaginative, only the parking lot beyond the glass.

I nod at last, as a reply towards that same window reflection.

'What do you want to do now, John?'

'Go home.'

He turns my way to nod quietly.

 _He's not leaving me yet._

 _ **.**_

The walking stick handle fits perfectly into the palm of my hand and yet the whole apparatus causes me some brief revulsion I immediately repress. I always knew it could technically come back. It has. It's not the end of the world.

My being fine was just a short respite from this. I got this from the war. It was a noble thing. I risked my life out there, for a good cause. I'm a crippled former soldier now. Nothing to be ashamed of.

'Will you shut up?' Sherlock yells indignant from the kitchen, where he's picking up from the floor the pieces of broken laboratory glassware.

'Didn't say anything!'

'You were thinking it', he hisses, before turning to face me. 'You are giving up already. That's wrong. If those doctors can't fix you – then I'll fix you!'

'What? How?'

He smirks because he's got my attention now. 'I've got my methods, John!' he singsongs, way too cheerful.

It comes across as more creepy than reassuring.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	124. Chapter 124

_A/N: I kept going. It's turning weird now. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.2.**_

" _The Personal Offline Blog of Doctor Watson"._ Took me half an hour just to come up with the stupid title. Sherlock asked me to talk to him. Like therapy. We both stood there looking at one another without a clue on what to do next. So he said maybe my therapist hadn't been so much of an idiot after all. A blog could be a good idea. But to be on the safe side I should keep it offline. In order to attract less master criminal minds, or just off-the-shelf criminals that could target me after a perceived weakness. An offline blog would still allow me to vent and put my thoughts together, perhaps face one thing or another I'd rather not address directly.

I said "alright". For Sherlock. But now I'm staring at a daunting white page and a blinking cursor, and find myself without words.

" _The blog is back."_

" _But you know this, Sherlock. Yes, of course I knew you would hack into this document. I even decided to make your life easy, and leave it without password protection. You'd get to the contents anyway. You are annoyingly brilliant. Take the other day, when you—"_

I think I was meant to write about myself. My bad. I'm just not as interesting as Sherlock, I notice, rubbing my leg pain to soften it.

" _Day 1. Sherlock is going to attempt to help me through some physiotherapy exercises. Hopefully they'll build up some core strength and diffuse the epicentre of the pain."_

I sure hope he knows what he's doing. I wouldn't advise this between any other couple of flatmates...

'John! Are you home?'

With a sigh I push down the laptop lid and follow the call. I grab my walking stick and drag my shuffling leg towards the living room. Sherlock has just come in from the street with a thermos bag. Are we having a picnic? Has Sherlock overcome his aversion to supermarkets?

'Molly got me something, John. You don't really need a tub of ice cream in the freezer, do you? We need to make room for this!' As he speaks he removes a severed leg from the isothermic bag, wrapped in cling film.

I lean in harder on the walking stick support. 'Sherlock, why do you need _that_?'

'Don't be like that, John! The drunk driver didn't need it any longer and his family signed the body's release for cremation. A few hundred grams less of ashes won't be noticed. Unless the family runs some funeral home, then they might notice because they are accustomed to handling human ashes. But still... I need to study its anatomy, figure out what could be wrong in your leg, and you wouldn't let me experiment in yours!'

I clear my throat. 'It's the wrong leg, Sherlock.'

'What do you mean? It's the same leg as your leg! It's the right leg!'

'Yeah, but I'm left handed. I've got a different dominant set of hand and leg, right?'

He looks down on his macabre treasure and gulps. 'I'll get the other leg. No one will notice. You don't need to keep frozen vegetables do you?' He hastily grabs his long coat. 'Won't take long, John! Have a cremation to crash!'

He's gone before he can see me smirk.

 _ **.**_

'Lay back on the rug and assume position 2b from page 472, John, if you don't mind.'

Forcefully grabbing the physical therapy book from his hands I stare at the image. 'The one where the person looks like a pretzel?' I ask, indignant.

'No, the one on the top of the page. I don't expect pretzel position until after the first two sessions, John.'

'No one can do pretzel position, Sherlock!'

I raise an eyebrow as he gracefully lowers himself to the rug and assumes the pretzel position to show me he can. Bloody flexible git...

'Fine!' I reply tersely as he unknots himself. 'Figure 2b. Lay on the floor, knees drawn up. What next?' I grab the book and read for myself. 'Some abs and core strength exercises. Sure. Let's start with the sit ups. Won't do a thing for my leg, though. Say when to stop, Sherlock.'

He's reading on as I start. Four. Five. Six.

'It's to improve general physical condition, John. And we can't have you train your legs and nothing else.'

I shrug through my repetitions. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

Sherlock gets up with his fixed idea expression, heading towards the kitchen. I hope he gets me some tea while there.

He only returns after making himself a sandwich. I look around but see none for me. That's a let down.

'How many have you done so far, John?' he trails between bites.

'A hundred and eleven, a hundred and twelve, a hundred—'

He drops the sandwich and splayed a forbidding hand on my shoulder. He looks oddly impressed and scared. 'Think that's enough now, John. Don't you think so?'

I shrug, running the back of a hand over my forehead. 'Was fitter back in the army.'

'You seem to have kept fit to me, John.'

'Yeah, well, I have a morning routine to keep fit. Thirty minutes of workout every morning as I get up.'

'In the mornings?' he repeats. 'Oh. The grunting and panting every morning, yes.'

'You can hear me downstairs?'

'Yes, and I...' he hesitates for some reason '...have been admiring your stamina. Half-an-hour every morning and sometimes again in the evenings...' He's messing with me now.

'It's my workout regime.'

'Well, I was secretly impressed, doctor Watson', he confesses, walking off. 'Maybe I still am.'

From any other person, I'd assume some innuendo, and that he was mocking me, but surely not from Sherlock "machine" Holmes...

' _What?_ ' I add, testily, as I sense something is still up. He stops himself from leaving me alone one more time.

'You were just going to carry on _forever_?' He's pointing at the rug now. The sit ups.

'I was following your orders, Sherlock. Why the sulk?'

'What were you thinking?' He's obsessing now, I can tell.

I shrug. 'Wasn't thinking. Was following orders.'

That incenses him the more. 'You are a captain, don't just follow orders!'

I smirk. 'I'm sure my commanding officers would disagree with you there, Sherlock.'

He still looks spooked. 'You've got a bummed leg. There's another reason to use your head, John. Now get on to position 3a, same page.'

I'm still amused. 'How many repetitions?'

'I'll be damned if I know', he mutters under his breath.

 _ **.**_

'Slowly extend the leg, John. That's it. You're doing great. And back down for a rest.'

'No, I can carry on!' I insist.

'John, you have become two shades paler since we started exercising your leg. I'd say two shades is the right amount for one session. We can repeat this exercise tomorrow.'

I shake my head. 'I just need to push past the pain, that's all. The doctors say it's all in my head anyway!'

'John, it's enough.'

'No, it's not!'

'It's unadvisable to proceed.'

'It can't wait!'

Sherlock tilts his head slightly, staring me down on the rug. 'Why can't it wait? Got some kitten to save from a tree, a protégée to walk down the aisle, a marathon to complete for charity?'

 _That's just silly, Sherlock._ 'You might need me. With two functional legs. It can't wait because the bad guys won't wait.'

Sherlock just looks sad now.

 _ **.**_

'You've overstrained yourself today, John', my friend notices from his armchair as I return to mine, on the other side of a comfortably lit fireplace, feeling a bit sore.

'That's how it's meant to be, Sherlock.'

'What you said earlier...'

'Hmm?'

'You fear for my safety?'

I take a deep breath. 'You're my friend and you've got a knack to get into trouble as much as I do. Of course I want to be there and help you out _if_ you need me. Doesn't mean I think you can't handle your own. Obviously you can.'

'Obviously', he repeats.

'Yeah.'

I open my novel and Sherlock returns to his medical encyclopaedia in Hindu. _Don't know why an ordinary English language encyclopaedia wouldn't do. Maybe he's just showing off now._

'I also feel the occasional urge to protect you, John. Whilst I believe you can protect yourself.'

'Ta, Sherlock.'

 _ **.**_

'You didn't write a page of your personal blog yesterday, John.'

It's early in the morning and I'm amazed Sherlock is up already. I'm feeding the toaster with bread slices and he's sorting the tea out (as best as he can).

I shrug. 'Gave it a try. Doesn't appeal to me much. Not that keen on talking about myself, I guess.'

'Why not? You're a war hero of sorts.' The detective pours me a cuppa.

I smile. 'Not very cheerful topic, the war.'

'Talk about something else, then.'

'You want me to talk about you, you self absorbed git!'

He dismisses the jibe with a free hand gesture. 'Talk about yourself, then, John! That was the point of the blog, after all.'

'What is there to talk about?' I ponder. 'I'm not a very interesting person.'

'Try me.'

'I'd bore you.'

'That, John, is impossible, I'm afraid.'

I find myself smiling again.

 _ **.**_

DI Lestrade is sitting behind his desk, looking as overworked as usual. He raises tired brown eyes to us as he sees us come in.

'Hey, guys, come on in, I'm just finishing— John, what's up with the leg? Did you get hurt the other day?'

'Old war injury flared up, that's all', I answer bravely, rubbing the leg.

Sherlock interrupts: 'It's psychosomatic, Lestrade, and we're working on fixing it.'

I send my best friend an ominous look. Of course he had to spill the beans, in the most candid way.

Greg takes a few seconds to ponder us over. 'That means it's in his head, right, Sherlock? That there's nothing actually wrong with the leg, so how can you fix it?'

Sherlock sighs. 'It's an enigma I'm willing to solve. What makes John's leg hurt for no logical reason.'

Greg backs down at once. 'There's got to be a reason. It's just not your type of reason, right? And you might still be wrong. John could have pulled a muscle and now you're all panicking.'

I smile. Greg's fatherly ways are quick to detect that Sherlock needs a respite from his constant worry over his flatmate. He's playing it down for all our benefit.

'I've got a case where I could use your help, guys. Are you up for it, John?'

'Bring it on.'

Sherlock glances my way, eyes still cloudy like a stormy day.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	125. Chapter 125

_A/N: Surprisingly addictive plotline. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.3.**_

'You were fine just the other night, John. Do you think you twisted an ankle or something?'

Lestrade is still playing down the whole walking stick business, as he brings me a paper cup coffee. We're both waiting outside the other half of the witness interrogation room, behind the one-way mirror, as Sherlock is watching a suspect that Greg senses is guilty but has no evidence to pin him for the vicious crime.

'It's my upper leg, definitely not an ankle.' My reply is a bit muttered but I force the necessary words out.

'Are you sure a pack of ice won't help?'

He's determined and well-meant, I just know. Still it's with relief that I spot Sherlock coming back to the corridor to meet us. He's looking sombre, and pockets his hands in his long coat.

'Your suspect is a good criminal, Lestrade. A clever one too.'

'You think he did it?' The inspector checks.

'I'm _sure_ he did it. As I'm sure you can't prove it. He won't have left a single waft of an incriminating evidence behind in the crime scene. He gets off on proving the police idiots.'

'Yeah. Reminds me of someone', Greg comments in a dead voice.

'You really make it easy, though. Some of us have even started to find it all... coarse, in unappealing sort of way.'

I interrupt the pair of detectives at once: 'Guys... Focus?'

Sherlock starts over. 'Your suspect is a textbook sociopath. Too many of us these days, you really don't get to feel so special anymore...' He trails off.

'Pull the other one!' I laugh it off. _High functioning sociopath_. 'You have conscience and empathy, Sherlock. You feel real emotions. You are telling us that guy in there can't. So he's amoral by nature and immoral by convenience. He committed a crime because it favoured him, he expected and felt no downside, and he got away with it because he's clever. Your job, Sherlock, is to find us a way of putting him away for what he's done. Some poor soul was killed.'

Sherlock shrugs. 'Pride. That's your answer, Lestrade. The price of genius: it needs an audience. Admit you've got nothing on him, but keep the camera going. If he thinks you can't pin him for the crime he'll take the chance to gloat. I can help. He'd love to show off in front of _me_.'

Greg sips the dregs of his coffee cup, keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock. Mulling over our friend. 'Lets go then', he decides.

I watch the two go to the interrogation room and follow closely, intrigued.

There are four of us in the tiny room now. Greg takes the other chair across the table at which the suspect seats. Sherlock and I stand behind him.

The sociopathic criminal sniggers. 'Got Sherlock Holmes to watch my interrogation, bro? That's awesome! No one will believe that back home! They are all losers!'

I glance at Sherlock. He keeps impassable. However the suspect noticed me now, in the quiet and cramped room.

'And who's the cripple?'

I cross my arms in front of me.

Lestrade introduces: 'Doctor Watson is our consultant on a few cases. He will assist on our interview from now on.'

'This guy? He don't scare nobody!'

Sherlock rolls his excess to the lyrical excess of bad grammar.

'That guy is ex-military. I'd watch myself if I were you. Which, of course, I could never be.'

'Do you think you are so clever? Bringing in a celebrity detective to watch? You got nothing on me!'

Sherlock shrugs. 'Not this time. It's just a matter of time until you make a mistake. Then we will have you.'

He leans back, confidently. 'You don't have me! See, I knew that! No one would rat me out after the convenience store guy got stabbed in the back!' he sniggers. I just want to punch him. Gloating about the stabbing without admitting having done it.

Maybe I don't have to punch him. Greg Lestrade leans forward, slowly, deliberately. 'We never told you where the convenience store clerk got stabbed, though. Only one way you knew that...'

The criminal looks at each of us in turn, just before he panics and gets off his seat, gunning for the door. _Not if I can help it!_ I tackle the guy down easily, turn him to recovery position but with his arms behind his back and, finally taking a deeper breath, I stretch my arm to get some handcuffs. Both Sherlock and Lestrade had me theirs in unison.

'Great job, John', Sherlock confides as Greg pushes the stupid criminal away to a detention cell. He as good as confessed the crime. After a night in custody he'll tell the whole story in a detailed, judge friendly fashion.

'Please don't do that, Sherlock', I beg of him, picking up my stick from the floor.

'Do what?'

'Compliment me because I'm in pain. You wouldn't have done so before. Don't act like I'm a wallflower now.'

Sherlock's eyes narrow. 'John, I...' He trails off, though. Guess he can't quite deny it. I look away. His words turn desperate: 'Well, you did a good tackle! Whilst using your right leg with no trouble.'

I turn and face him with surprise.

Instinct kicked in. And I don't have an actual physical injury. My mind knew that in a split of a second; but any other time? I rub my hand over my leg. Sure is hurting now.

'Got anyone else I can tackle?' I ask my friend, with a miserable smile.

 _ **.**_

" _The new blog of doctor John Watson_

" _Look at that, I've got a visitor in my imaginary visitors log! Hi, Sherlock!_

" _You asked me to write down my account of the last couple of days. You implied I was remissive in my first attempt, and that I should expose my version of events with all the accuracy I could sustain; granting that I wasn't a scientist or even a very methodical man. Except when advocating high levels of cleanliness in 221B, you added. I told you to make your own cuppa._

" _So... The physiotherapy sessions. You're doing a great job, and it really impresses me how much effort you put into doing this alongside me. I mean, pretzel position? We almost got it!_

" _And I'm glad we still get to do some consultancy work for the Yard. Wouldn't want to think you were holding back because of me. Yesterday, with that sociopathic criminal in the interrogation room? Sure you were let down it didn't require real deductions from your part, but what you did was good help. Lestrade and the others couldn't do it on their own. You just knew how to manipulate the guy. I'm glad I got to watch and help a bit in the end, Sherlock."_

 _ **.**_

'What's this?' I ask, a couple of seconds after a crumpled piece of paper got tossed my way. I unscramble the clue with a furtive glance at Sherlock.

'It's a print out of your so-called new blog, John.'

'What's up with all the red pen?'

'I had some corrections to make.'

I smirk. Typical Sherlock.

Then I look better. _"Digressing, John! It's about YOUR day!" "We are not changing our work for your temporary ailment!" "You left out all the part where YOU tackled a suspect double your size and pinned him down without even breaking a sweat!" "Please re-read the title or change it!"_

'Hmm, Sherlock?' I ask, rubbing my leg.

He's nowhere to be seen.

 _ **.**_

" _John Watson's blog 2.0_

" _In which the boring author tries to polish the details of his average life to the hyper critical audience of one great detective. No, scratch that. The audience says I compliment him too much. Surely he doesn't mean when I yell at him for using up all of the milk in yet another pointless experiment. I told him, carrying milk from the supermarket makes my leg hurt. He said we could get it delivered to us, and got on his phone to order us some groceries. I asked him why haven't we ever come up with that before. He said we didn't need to. I fulfilled that role very adequately. He looked impressed with my choice of curse words in Pashto."_

 _ **.**_

'Well, that was boring reading.' I look up, sweaty from the exerting exercises. 'Your blog', Sherlock particularises.

 _Hey, not fair!_

'Told you so. I'm a boring person.'

'I know you're not boring, John. Please assume the second position from the same page now.'

'I'm not sure I can', I relay, glimpsing at the picture. He snatches the book, turning it his way and inspecting the picture.

'Not sure you've got long enough legs for that either, John.'

'What happened to the other book? This is a different book. What book is this, anyway?' I snatch the book right out of his hands. He won't relent easily. I snap it shut and read the cover. ' _Yoga positions for all ages_? Sherlock, what the—? Wait a minute! Did you read about this in the Hindu medical encyclopaedia?'

'Maybe', he just about admits it. 'We need a holistic approach to your recovery, John. Which leads me back to your blog. You seem to think I'd stand for such irrelevant chitchat. In real life I would have walked away and you know it. You have failed to get a grade on that paper. Please do it again', he directs, getting up from the living room rug.

'Where are you going?'

'To the bookshop, John! There's this African village where it is reported that a ritual involving two goats and some feathers is performed whenever one of his youths is injured. It is said to have a high level of success, and you're not allergic to bird feathers, are you? I believe you get covered in them at some point in the elaborate ceremony.'

'I'm not travelling to Africa!'

'No need. We can get all we want here at Baker Street', he smiles genially.

 _Sherlock is getting desperate now..._

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	126. Chapter 126

_A/N: Looking for meaning -csf_

* * *

 _ **.4.**_

Baker Street is enveloped in a foggy, eerie stillness. The same suspension of patches of damp air swirling about the street, filters in through every crack and crevice of our flat. Out there, not even the effervescent London stirs in the quiet hours. Only the fog revolves under the constant melody of time. London is fast asleep. Except for Sherlock and I.

My friend has found me out not even an hour ago, feverish and shivering, as I hunched over myself. Knees drawn up, sat on the bedside rug, my back against the creased, damp sheets rolling off the bed. My eyes shut tight, shielding myself against the persistent pain that won't abate. I tried breathing exercises, hot water bottes, massages to sooth the leg muscles, distractions in books, phone apps and the like. Nothing worked. So in the privacy of a dusky but familiar room (familiar like a part of me, as only home can be) I sat on the floor and allowed myself to break down. Didn't allow a sound louder than a whisper to originate from me. I wanted the protection of solitude, the stoicism of self-imposed exhile, the oblivion of merging into the shadows surrounding me. Don't know how Sherlock found me out. If we were to break this complicit silence in the room, he'd probably tell me my _quietness_ woke him up. As a mother senses her child's fever from another room, without really bring able to pinpoint what wrongness brought about that inner restlessness, that divination of some shadow about.

Maybe there were too many shadows and I was a part of them. More probably, Sherlock noticed the absence of my usual tells; tossing and turning, snoring (I don't really think I snore, though, it's just loud breathing), the rustling of bed covers pushed away.

He could have turned the other way and fallen deeper asleep. But my good friend was on a vigil. He wants to intercept my pain, and act decisively on it from the start.

Shuffling his feet, with tousled hair, partly plastered to his face, and a creased sleep attire, Sherlock gently knocked on my bedroom door with his knuckles and worked his way in, without waiting for unnecessarily spoken permission.

Sherlock is still Sherlock.

I looked up from my cocoon of pain and loss, and said nothing. He was fine with that. He gently came over and sat on the rug beside me, sharing it with me.

He's sat at my right – as if to provide a shield of protection to my offending limb.

I smile. Only Sherlock could bring about a smile in such misery.

He looks back to me, but won't reflect my smile. He looks patient, and kind, but sad. For me.

I sigh and cosy up in the blanket around my shoulders. Without conscious thought I find myself leaning over to my best mate, and sleepy, I try to relax against his frame.

He slides an awkward arm behind my back, pretending to be collecting my blanket that slid off my shoulder, and keeps his hand on my back.

'Physical contact seems to numb your pain somewhat, John', he deduces.

 _There_. He had to spoil the moment!

Tense, I rectify my posture, and look about for a distraction in the room. Sherlock's hand retreats slowly, shyly.

'I don't mind staying', he adds hastily. 'Hmm, your rug is very... rugged. In a good way. It's a fine specimen of a rug.'

I let a smile creep into my lips.

'This is going to be the "doctor Watson's blog 3.0", isn't it?'

His breathing hitches. This is the possible breakthrough he's been waiting for. Masked in a modicum of self-derision.

'Well, I for one would not oppose it, John.'

I look around, a bit spooked by my prediction, by the stern solemnity of the occasion. Then I smirk. Sure it had to happen with me huddling on the floor, Sherlock's silhouette barely visible in the dusky bedroom. But I let that go too, the pride of a soldier, because I trust Sherlock at all times and locations.

'The first time my leg hurt like this, there was no actual wound. I mean, actually there was a bruise afterwards. Someone had just bumped into me. But the damage didn't match the pain level. Nothing made medical sense.'

'Who was that someone?' Sherlock whispers quietly.

I blink. 'He may not have been a full someone, so to speak. Not after the improvised explosive device he found went off. But he was most definitely dead. Beyond anything I could have put back together again. Even in the best hospital, with a surgical team and— I never heard the end of the joke he was telling. That's probably alright. He was the worst at telling jokes. Laughed all the way through, got the ending out before telling all the important bits, he really wasn't a story teller.'

Sherlock and I fall quiet in the wake of that memory until I add: 'It hurt for a respectable while, then it went away. Like all else in the theatre of war, it just went numb. Do you get that, Sherlock? That when there's too much adrenaline coursing through your veins, when the threat is constant, it just becomes... normal?'

Sherlock nods, I can feel my friend's assent right by my side. He was an addict once; maybe one always is. He knows the habituation mechanism.

Maybe in a sort of manner it was the same for me.

'There were other shocks, other losses. I don't know why that one would have been the most important one, why would it have triggered such mayhem in my mind.'

He finally whispers a deduction: 'Only you, John, would feel guilty to have a trauma over the dramatic loss of a fellow soldier, but not all the others that also died or got too injured and sent home.'

I gulp drily. 'How do you let go of all this?'

'You appreciate your luck and make your life worth it', he suggests. 'Pay it forward, as they say. If collective wisdom is anything to go by, once you amass all the platitudes into one general life rule; be nice. You are already a very nice person, John. Most times. Please refrain from changing.'

I sigh and close my eyes, my weary body impossibly dragging me down. The imperious necessity to sleep taking over.

No, my damage is ever present. Won't get fixed by a magic cure. But it helped – Sherlock's effort. I'm lucky to have his support. Literally too, I realise, as my head slides onto his shoulder, drunk with sleep.

His arm wraps around me comfortably and he keeps to his protection on a cold hardwood floor.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock fell asleep in his armchair a while ago. He's breathing softly through his parted lips, in a picture of childish innocence. He got defeated in his endeavour to keep me company through my ordeal, as he meant to, in the most selfless form of friendship. I saw it coming; eyelids drooping ever more, grainy eyes being rubbed when I wasn't supposed to be looking, excessive blinking, sluggish moves, paleness. I knew Sherlock wanted to keep me company, to keep me safe, sane. I also knew he was truly exhausted already. He wouldn't deny me any support, but he too needed to replenish his strengths so to be able to support me. I could never think less of him for that.

Carers get drained too, and I have unwillingly turned by best mate into my protector, keeping me safe in my darkest hour.

I get up from my armchair and go raid the fridge in the odd hours of the morning. I'll make sure Sherlock wakes up to a nice English breakfast.

 _ **.**_

Clients keep coming to us. We wouldn't turn them away on principle. Sherlock is ever brilliant, solving some of their cases without leaving the flat – sometimes even before they finished exposing the circumstances that brought them to us.

I like to believe that this leg pain (actually it's all in my head) is not holding Sherlock back too much. But no matter how much he tries hiding it from me, I can tell my friend is getting restless, for it's not only I who thrives on our short bursts of action and adventure. Sherlock is much of an adrenaline junkie as I am, and without the healthiest option of wearing it off, I fear he might give in to some less than desirable behaviour patterns from the old days.

So far, he's been focusing on me, and keeping himself in check – for me.

And I'm thankful.

This morning 221B is changed by the presence of a gospel choir. A big choir, and the neatly dressed performers spill into the kitchen area. I recognise I'm out of the loop when I finally reach the landing on the second verse of _Amazing Grace_.

Why are they performing for Sherlock anyway?

'Oh, there you are, John!' my friend welcomes me, agreeable. 'Just warming them up for you.'

'Is this supposed to heal my psychosomatic pain?' With Sherlock, who knows what the working hypothesis is?

'Nonsense, they are clients!' he snaps back. Then adds: 'Why? Think it would help you? No, that's utter nonsense, John!' he walks off in one of his burst of mania.

'Calm down, Sherlock. Just... won't you introduce me to the clients?'

Sherlock turns abruptly. He seems aggravated now. 'Clients, this is my good friend, doctor Watson.'

I wait, but that's all I'm going to get.

Shuffling my weight over the walking stick I smile politely. 'Hello everyone. We've got some chairs... not enough for a full choir. But I always make sure we've got enough tea bags for such an occasion. Tea anyone?'

Funnily enough, no hand raises as I head to the kitchen myself. I locate a bottle of water and my useless pain meds.

Sherlock snaps out of a sudden abstraction. 'Not now, John! They were about to tell us all of the latest buried parishioner.'

'Oh, really? Why?' I ask conversationally, as I swallow a tablet.

'He was buried alive, John.'

I find myself spitting out part of the water, through the nose and all. 'What? That's not possible, someone would have spotted a live one!'

'He sure wasn't alive after the undertaker embalmed his body.'

I blink. 'Body swapped?' I return as I find something to mop up the floor hastily. A whole choir is watching me, too.

'Must have been. We must investigate! Will you come?'

I hesitate.

Only for a second, but it's easily discernible in the eyes of my best friend. He reacts with volatile anger, which shocks me, but immediately he collects himself. 'I will not insist, John.' Sounds a bit ominous, though; he can't help himself.

I clear my throat.

'Yes, of course I'm going! What did ya think?'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	127. Chapter 127

_A/N: If only I could stop and sleep for a week... -csf_

* * *

 _ **.5.**_

It's a bitter cold morning as Sherlock and I approach the old stone church. Centuries old, with gothic pinnacles on the steeple and eroded gargoyles on each roof edge end, heavy dark wood doors and colourful stained glass windows. A ghost from a more glorious past on its own, planted in the fabric of an outskirts town that lost some of its glow. Nice houses about, but tinted with a lack of charm or personality, signs of a modern life where neighbours don't talk to each other anymore and people live closed off lives. The suburban houses and liquidated high street business contrast with the anachronism of a rural parish.

As we walk the streets from the train station, I glance over my shoulder.

'Did we just leave a whole gospel choir in 221B?'

Sherlock waves his hand. 'They went their separate ways, I'm sure. If not, Mrs Hudson will have tossed them out already.'

I smirk. Sherlock takes this opportunity to gently question, in almost a shared whisper: 'How's your leg managing?'

'Just fine, there's nothing medically wrong with it, you know?'

'John...' he asks for cooperation.

I glance away, to the church. I can see the tower clock in the distance, blackened by years of air pollutants.

'I'm getting used to it. Its not even the first time...'

'Indeed', he remarks, but only so he has something to say, I believe.

He raises his voice as if on a stage now: 'What do you make of our case, John?'

'An odd one. Don't know why you would take it, though. Either the doctors, the pathologist and the undertaker were all wrong, or someone switched the body for that of a live, but unconscious one, just before burial. It's gory, but that's all it's worth. Who did it probably depends on who is the dead-undead, Sherlock.'

He hums appreciatively. 'Very methodical, John. Either the cool morning air does you wonders or that psychosomatic pain. I hope it's not the latter or my efforts would be ridding you of your new powers, John!'

I give him a look that aims to remind him that a walking stick is one of the best weapons of opportunity. He smirks as he reads my mind crystal clear.

Sherlock has been doing that. Complimenting me. Trying to cheer me up, I presume. For a self-diagnosed sociopath, he knows how to be a great friend better than most regular folks.

'So what do _you_ think happened?'

'Too soon to tell, John!'

 _ **.**_

Sherlock and I return to the church's exterior with a feeling of gratefulness for the warm sunny day that greets us after hours cooped up inside a damp and cold stone building. We're at the side door, facing the small graveyard from the olden days, where patches of grass and flowers mingle about borders around the geometrically aligned headstones.

'They hadn't buried him yet. Not when they noticed the smell. The body was decomposing much faster than a good undertaker could have taken care to allow. They opened the lid. Scratches from the inside, and a twisted corpse wearing a t-shirt and flip flops.'

'Brilliantly summarised, John. Please skip repeating that on your earlier version blogs.'

'And the original dead body?'

Sherlock is analysing a flowering shrub by us. I guess he was affected too, for all his love of the macabre. The sweet scented air of flowers is a welcomed change of pace. Sherlock is analysing the soft pink trumpet-like flower that elegantly tumbles down to his dark curls, highlighting his classic features.

'Sherlock?' I call on my distracted friend.

'The original dead guy?' he recaps for me. 'Probably thrown inside a skip. It's of little concern. He'll turn up and the Yard will be all over it once someone understands he's been embalmed. Not so usual for a tossed skip corpse. What's the real concern here is who has access to _that_ CCTV camera, John!' He carelessly points to a dark bulb-like camera nestled on a stone cornice behind us.

Oh, right.

'But that's recording this graveyard!' I study it's field of view.

'And the murder weapon!' he adds triumphantly. 'Not quite', he adds with a warm smirk as he finds me wide eyes and amazed, looking at him in awe. 'The murder weapon was the sealed coffin, but this still ranks quite high in terms of weapons, John!'

'Then what is it?'

'A handy poison to make the victim most cooperative.'

 _ **.**_

' _If this was the end of the world, John, would you still want to hang out with me?'_

I glance sideways to where I know my friend lies, hidden under the cover of absolute darkness. Can't see a single trait of his features, but I hear his soft breathing and I let it tranquilize me.

'Of course, Sherlock.'

' _And – just for the record, John – I'm sorry we're both trapped inside an uncommonly wide coffin, with no means to escape and a limited supply of oxygen.'_

'That's alright.'

I smile to the darkness, but take care to also shrug. We're both side by side, laying on the hard surface, sharing a large coffin, so he's sure to feel my gesture and interpret it correctly.

'We lead a dangerous lifestyle, I guess.'

' _I estimate 20 minutes left of usable oxygen content. Maybe 10 with us awake.'_

'Oh. So this is what happened to the dead-undead guy. Got buried alive, in replacement of some real dead person.'

' _Yes, by the same person that shoved us in and firmly closed the lid over us. Oh, and slid a heavy load over the coffin so we couldn't break out. But it wasn't so gory, the victim was hallucinating due to the ingestion of that flowery shrub from the graveyard. Deadly nightshade. Maybe he didn't even know what was going on.'_

We do.

We must remain calm.

I sigh breathlessly. 'Maybe it just made it all worse?'

Sherlock gulps, and I can hear it distinctly. _'No evidence to assume that, John.'_

'Right.' I sigh audibly.

' _The most important thing is not to panic'_ , me lectures me.

Then Sherlock remains silent a bit long.

' _On second analysis'_ , he proceeds, in love with his own voice, _'this is more a extra large coffin than a large one.'_

'Knew that all along', I say. We're stuck on a dead man's coffin because Sherlock wanted to look for clues. 'That's how we both fit in it.' Maybe I just wanted to fill that silence with something. I'm getting worn out now.

' _You need to keep awake, John.'_

'Hmm?'

' _You are overall smaller_ _–_ _and more compact. Your body is being affected faster then mine.'_

Not quite sure that males medical sense, but I'm too hazy to check.

' _How's your leg?'_

I blink. 'Not bothering me at all right now.'

' _So life-or-death situations are good for the pain'_ , he analyses. Still deducing me, as if I was his final mystery, even as the usable oxygen runs out for us.

My eyelids inexorably drop another millimetre. Sherlock pokes me in the ribs.

' _You don't make scientific sense, John. Pain levels should improve on a hyperbaric chamber, John. I ordered one for us, by the way. We can fit it in the landing. You shouldn't be better on low oxygen levels.'_

'Told you it's all in my head. If you put a hyperbaric chamber in the landing what are the clients going to say?'

' _Who cares about them? They're boring anyway!'_

'Sherlock, you need to cancel that order', I direct, sternly.

' _You need to make me'_ , he replies petulantly.

I twist as much as I can from my ill fitted position he's already chuckling and holding me off. We're elbowing and poking each other each other through Sherlock's deep chuckles when we hear a sound outside our coffin confinement.

 _ **.**_

A sudden clasp of cracked wood stops me short. Sherlock exclaims a victorious noise at once.

'What was that?'

' _I'm kicking the coffin's lid, John. It's coarse and simplistic, but I trust you won't oppose joining me?'_

'The last tenant tried that with no success.'

' _Yes. But there's two of us in here this time. That's our advantage. Plus, I still have a magic trick up my sleeve.'_

Right. Sherlock knows how to keep me curious.

' _Did you hear that?'_ Sherlock whispers sharply, his voice as a metallic strain in the silence surrounding us.

'Hear what?' No.

' _Lestrade. He's here.'_

'How would he even know?'

' _He was worried about you, John! He's a worrier, that one.'_

 _ **.**_

Someone found us a couple of mismatched blankets. I'm burrowing into mine, hoping to get that slight tremor that roams my body unnoticed. Sherlock is up and energetic, searching the premises for some sign of the person who shoved is into claustrophobic darkness.

Lestrade is following Sherlock the best he can, looking a bit daunted by the genius' mania. Soon he glances at me, as if hoping to include me in an effort to control Sherlock by force if necessary.

'John, you alright there, mate?' he asks me instead.

I give the DI my best smile. 'Just peachy, Greg.'

It doesn't impress him enough. Behind him, Sherlock stills at once. 'John?' he seconds.

Lestrade starts talking: 'I swung by Baker Street to check up on you, John, and Mrs Hudson grabbed me for a cuppa and told me about the full choir. I wondered what was the case, and when I heard of it, I wanted to join you, make sure John was okay, and that's how I found you guys. The church was quiet, when I came in through a heavy creaking door, but then I heard a constant muffled pounding from a locked coffin. I can tell you now it totally creeped me out.'

'You saved us.'

'I got the weight off from over _police evidence – that should have been left untouched, Sherlock! –_ and pulled back the lid. Just in time, too! You guys could have died stuck in there!'

Sherlock grunts. 'Obviously we didn't. We're just in lecture purgatory.'

Greg looks over at me, pleading with me to get some sense into our friend. I snuggle further inside the coarse blanket, ignoring them.

'John?'

For some reason, Greg seems shocked for my lack of cooperation. Sherlock stops short again, this time looking me over multiple times.

'Take your medication, John.'

I shake my head briefly.

Normal oxygen levels are not helping.

They just exchange worried glances.

DI Lestrade takes out his phone.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	128. Chapter 128

_A/N: It's of no surprise I'm not a doctor. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.6.**_

It's late at night at I can't sleep. I've been pacing my bedroom – but only on the squared rug area, so to muffle my steps and not awake Sherlock, downstairs. I'm getting a bit nauseated from all the short turns over a limited space. Or it's from the pain. The medication isn't working this time. I'm stuck with sharp pain bursts, as if I had just got my leg blown up by some IED.

Don't want to give in, don't want to accept defeat.

I finally lean my hot and damp forehead against the wallpaper, and slide myself sideways along the wall, down to the floor.

I lay down silently dry sobbing, because the pain is relentless, and all consuming. My hand clasps like a claw over the taunt skin and yet I feel nothing except for the sharp stabbing bursts my mind supplies. I'm punishing myself on some level, and I must deserve it because I can't make it stop. It's now ten times worse then the last few days. At first the pain medication worked, it always does, but now my body craves more just to keep up with the onslaught of my mind's past memories, carried over to the present time.

I gasp, because it's too much to bear. Because I want to be anywhere else but here and now. I'd gladly return to war or claustrophobic spaces if it only took the edge of this constant companion.

Something in me breaks. I find myself reaching out for my walking stick, mechanic movements, single-minded determination to reach my goal. Downstairs. Presumably asleep. I'm seeking out Sherlock because I can't handle this alone.

My hand trembles over the stick, my frame is sweaty and feverish as I battle each step of the stairs, pain shooting up my leg on each unbalanced advancement. Finally I reach my friend's bedroom door, with tense set shoulders and sore tight jaw muscles. Only pure determination keeps me going now.

I reach for the door handle, wondering how Sherlock has failed so miserably to come to my aid this time. I twist the metal and push the door open. The bedroom is empty.

 _Sherlock's gone._

 **.**

I wake up in a jolt that electrified me from the hospital bed. I lay there in shock, gasping heavily, confused as hell.

Sherlock stands by my bedside at once, still in his day clothes. A vacated visitor's plastic chair is empty a foot away. I'm assuming he had trouble sleeping too. Maybe he heard me wrestle with my nightmare. Maybe he refuses to go home, so to keep a regular check on me now.

'John!'

He finds me looking about with some lingering confusion and his light coloured eyes narrow considerably. It all feels detached from reality to me. Slowed down, unreal, febrile.

He grabs me by the shoulders. 'John.'

I want to say something but only a groan escapes my lips.

A soft warm hand cups my cheek, and those eyes turn a beautiful shade of green in the reflected moonlight from the single window in the private hospital room.

'It's going to be alright now', he promises me, abandoning all scientific reasoning.

I shake my head. What does he know?

Sherlock angles himself between the patient and the machine that dispenses controlled amounts of medicine into my IV. He fiddles with the equipment confidently, upping the level of opiates, and I'm left wondering how he got access to the codes. I could almost hear him deduce the four digits combination just from oily deposits on the keys.

'You are an idiot, John', he pre-empts freely, facing me again. 'And possibly a terrible doctor too. The _good_ professionals, the ones who don't doctor themselves and dictate their tests and analyse their own results, picked up on a hairline fracture in your leg. They are assuming it to be an impact fracture, or a stress fracture – oh, you know this better than me – from when we were jumping those rooftops, that last case before you got leg pain. You missed the hairline tell on the x-rays and I missed the 4000 Newtons approximate force of impact you sustained on one of the strongest bones in the human body. Seriously, John, it was the wrong time to soldier on. The medication you kept taking masked most of the swelling and all the sauntering about we've done was of no benefit to your injury. You were grossly incompetent. In the end, I had to hear an odious gloating from the x-ray technician that he spotted it and a doctor hadn't. Worry not, I have challenged him to spot all the breakages on his own nose after I punched him. He's in a hospital, he'll be fine, he's the one who chose such convenient workplace location. Don't give me that look, John! I'm the only one who can tell you what sort of idiot you are! What on earth are you _smiling_ for?'

It's a miserable smile but it's there.

'You really punched the x-ray guy? Because I didn't find a micro fracture on the film?'

'He clearly did a poor job producing the said x-ray, John.'

'Or I missed it because I was looking for something bigger. Something that matched the leg pain. It's really hard to break a femur bone, Sherlock.'

'Bad landing, I gather.'

'Old age too', I add.

'Never, John. We will never be too old', he vows. I smile more freely.

'So... now?'

'Slight infection. The antibiotics are kicking in. You are to be kept overnight for precaution.'

I nod. I know the diagnosis and treatment.

'Did I really miss it?' I ask, disappointed.

'One is not one's own most objective doctor. For the record, John, I'm sorry I missed it too.'

Not even Sherlock saw it, maybe the technician really deserved a broken nose.

'So, fighting the coffin increased the fracture and made it easier to spot.'

'Possibly. By the way, Lestrade caught the killer using the CCTV footage. He has already confessed. It was the priest himself. The gospel choir is inconsolable, but they are determined to transform their sorrow into a new repertoire piece. We are invited to watch them perform as soon as you get better.'

I nod, feeling a bit drained again. Sherlock adds, in a quiet whisper: 'Just rest for now, John. I won't be far, I'll keep an eye on the world for you.'

'Sherlock, I...' _Don't want to fall asleep._ 'I'm not sleepy', I lie.

'Just drop it, John. Follow doctor's orders, for once.'

'You're not a doctor and I'm not sleepy', I argue, among a yawn. His features soften considerably at the sight of such blatant undermining.

'And I shall keep an eye out, John.'

I trust he will.

 _ **.**_

Mrs Hudson is still regularly fussing over both her tenants; me, because of my broken leg, and Sherlock, out of old habit. It's been weeks now, and the physiotherapy book is stored on a high shelf, for some future attempt of the pretzel shape. Tonight Sherlock and I are going to watch our clients' new performance. They are singing a gospel piece in a performance dedicated to Sherlock Holmes; how could we miss that?

'Simply by not going, John, we would miss the boring performance', Sherlock quips in.

I hide a smirk, as I straighten my tie in front of the fireplace's mirror. I'm on my best behaviour. Sherlock is wearing one of his terribly expensive suits as usual. I'm about to reach over for my walking stick when I hesitate. Sherlock appears out of nowhere behind me, in feline swiftness, and watches me intently as I make my solemn decision.

The leg bone is about healed. I can leave my grim companion at last. It will feel odd not to have a stick to lean on.

Also, it will feel as a relief.

'John, it's time', Sherlock whispers from up close.

Since when is Sherlock worried about not being late? He's usually a diva, better arriving late, and with a grand entrance too, if possible.

I turn to my friend. 'Yes, it's time. _Thanks for waiting._ ' Thanks for sticking by me, for all your support, for believing this would be resolved.

My best friend quietly sustains my honest gaze, no traces of hurry in him at all.

'I wouldn't leave without you, John.' Finally he turns away, and adds, in a deceptively cold tone of voice: 'After all, I never carry cash or cards and someone needs to pay for the cab ride. We don't want to get arrested again.'

Oh, yes, that. We have kept taking up cases, even as I limped through them, Sherlock being as brilliant as ever, but patient too. The last one threw us in jail when we broke into the wrong flat and started examining the crime scene. Turns out it was just the grimy, messy flat of a neighbour. Had we have had enough time we may have figured that out on our own, or found ourselves another corpse buried underneath the clutter. Instead we got pulled out of there by the Metropolitan police.

Lestrade thought it funny not to intervene till early morning hours.

At least he brought us coffees and donuts as we sprung us out of jail.

By then, Sherlock had already solved the case even without visiting the correct crime scene.

I smile softly. 'Ready?' I ask Sherlock, leaving the waking stick behind, still angled against the red fabric of my armchair.

He shrugs. 'I've never stopped being ready', he assures me. 'I was just waiting for you to catch up.'

Sherlock is still Sherlock.

 _ **.**_


	129. Chapter 129

_A/N: I was reading about fire hazards at the workplace, that's where this started. And finished. It's a short one. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

' _Sherlock!'_

I shout my best friend's name towards the bursting incandescent flames of the three stories high industrial building totally consumed by fire, about to implode. Sherlock was in there, checking out the place for clues. I came out, insisting on meeting Lestrade for the inevitable police clean up, when the fast spreading fire burst forth. Most likely triggered remotely by an explosive device. It spread like wild fire, possibly following some premeditated path.

 _Sherlock is still in there._

'Sherlock!'

Lestrade is shouting too, towards the huge ball of crackling fire and high temperature. Seconds go by and no sign of Sherlock.

 _My god, my friend must have got stuck in there._

We both edge forwards. That's the exact moment the huge bonfire constricts and curls on itself, only to suddenly explode in burping new batches of flames.

Lestrade is shaking and deadly pale as he grabs me by the elbow, trying to stop me. He's slowed down himself, the orange glaze of the fire reflected on his moist eyes.

 _No. I refuse that. Sherlock will always find a death-defying act._

Greg won't let go of me.

'You can't go in there, John. Leave it to the fire crew. They are on their way.'

Limiting his losses, already. The inspector has years of experience and acts accordingly. As for me, I've got years of risking my life and I'm prepared to make full use of them.

I shake off Greg's well intended hand holding me back and take a couple of steps forwards, towards the epicentre of hellfire. He grabs me again, more forcefully. I take a sharp turn and punch him on the nose. I don't think I meant to hurt him. Just wanted him to let go of me. He does, just before he hits the ground. He stays down, looking up at me over a cupped hand around his bleeding nose. He's not nearly as angry as I thought. He's worried sick.

 _Can't stay, Greg!_

I apologise, but I'm not even sure he heard me. The crackling of the self powered fire is too loud. It swirls, wooshes, snaps, crackles and moans like a wounded beast. Nothing like that can ever hold me back, not when Sherlock...

'Sherlock!' I yell his name yet again.

Reaching the burning building's front door I use my jumper's sleeve to cover my hand as I push open the heated door.

My movement has just created a draft of desert dry, eye watering hot air that swirls around me, enveloping me in this living hell of smoke and suspended debris.

'Sherlock!'

No answer, and the pit of my stomach sinks deeper.

The hallway is already consumed by bright red flames scaling the walls and lining the ceiling in a death-defying act against gravity. I hunch over myself but will not hesitate to run into the death trap.

'Sherlock, just answer me already!'

I hear nothing and try to deduce _– that's good, that's what Sherlock does, that's what makes him great –_ where he took cover so I can go rescue him and we can finally leave this place behind.

I'm rushing forward through the hallway when a giant rumble echoes through the area, louder than the consuming flames, followed by an incandescent piece of ceiling falling over the entrance door, setting it alight.

Damn these old buildings! Everything is combustible around here.

' _Sherlock!'_

I can't get back out.

What have I done?

What have I yet to do? Find Sherlock bloody Holmes.

' _John!'_

I turn around in relief. Sherlock has appeared, a bit hunched over, face mysteriously smudged, but overall alive and breathing and moving, at the end of the hallway.

'Took you long enough!' I half protest.

He smirks. 'Waiting for you, actually.'

'For me?'

'Knew you'd come. Couldn't leave before you coming for me, now could I?'

I follow my mad friend, a bit daunted.

'You couldn't be sure I'd come.' I point out.

'Now you're just being silly, John.'

John Watson will always come to Sherlock's rescue. Yes, it's a fact.

'How are we getting out of here?'

'Secret tunnel under the building', he mentions, in a matter-of-fact sort of way. 'World War One listed building, remember? They built bomb shelters underneath it. Bet you they have another way out!'

'Oh, that makes sense. Did you already know that before we came over to investigate?'

He doesn't bother answering me. Keeping his secrets in a corridor full of deathly flames, that's Sherlock alright. Mysterious till the end.

Sherlock guides me through the smoke to where he stops in front of a narrow, short door on a shabby wall.

'You could have gone without me, Sherlock. Left me a note if I showed up. I keep saying you couldn't possibly be sure I'd come for you!'

He glances over his shoulder towards me as he picks the rudimentary lock on the little door.

'Once I opened this door I risked creating further drafts that could jeopardise your life, John.'

Yes, I get that. More oxygen will fuel the flames, puff them up angrily.

'What if I hadn't come?'

'Pfft!' he dismisses that, once again.

Not for the first time, I feel a deep cold shiver down my spine. And this dreadful heat from the fire hardly explains it.

Sherlock bet his life on my showing up. Greg tried to stop me, trying to save at least one of us. Had I listened to Greg, Sherlock would have possibly collapsed due to smoke inhalation long before he'd see me show up for his rescue. All the while, the escape route was in sight.

As if a life where we wouldn't be there for each other wasn't truly worth living.

Of course I came, to rescue Sherlock. He'd do the same for me.

The same rescue he's doing on his own. I'm just a spectator now.

The little door opens and around us the fire bubbles and spits and roars like a hellish beast.

'Watch out!' I shout, I'm already pushing Sherlock out of the way of a falling bundle of hot debris. Sherlock's green eyes look spooked for the first time as he looks back at me. He didn't count on that. For the first time there's healthy fear in my friend's innocent eyes, and thankfulness too. He doesn't say the needless words, he just pulls me along with him into the tunnel and closes the door behind us.

It's noticeably cold and damp in this new space.

'Smells mouldy', I comment out loud, not liking the utter darkness we've just landed in. Like shifting through alien planets, one at a time.

Sherlock lights up his phone and that small electronic glare is welcomed at once.

'There!' Sherlock locates, pointing forward. 'Our way out.'

'Thanks.'

'It was an unsteady nitrate based chemical, by the way, John.'

'What?'

'That set off the fire. No criminal hand. Just negligence.'

'How do you know?'

'I saw the bottle. I... hmm... dropped it.'

I giggle before I can help it.

'That's alright. Lestrade will never know and the fire is too powerful, it will destroy all evidence. Now, however, I own you. I'll blackmail you for this, Sherlock.'

'Just drop it, John. I know you better than that. I'll buy your silence with a nice jumper to replace that one you're wearing. It's got singed.'

'Done, you daft thing... Did you really drop a bottle of an explosive chemical?'

'Years of chemical degradation have made the compound extremely unstable, John.'

'You dropped it!'

'Not on purpose!'

'You idiot!'

We're both chuckling as we reach the fresh air outside.

 _ **.**_

* * *

 _2_ _nd_ _A/N: When I write them in one go like this time, I go back to check for continuity errors and view the piece from other characters' point of view. There are times when I feel sorry for old Sherlock. He really doesn't have it easy. He needed to wait for John Watson, who would put himself in danger for his best mate. As always, there's this almost self-destructive streak to Sherlock, who would wait even in the ninth circle of hell. They are both messed up and it works for them._

 _Also, don't try this at home. -csf_


	130. Chapter 130

_A/N: Think Happy Halloween thoughts. Happy ending, of sorts. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.one/four.**_

'It's all in your head, John!'

'Not really, I almost died!'

'I saved your life!' Sherlock hisses at me.

I'm fuming now.

'You saved my head in a glass bell jar, full of some translucent fluid, halfway liquid and half gas. I can't really breathe, given that I've got no lungs, can't walk on account of no legs—'

'Those are being fixed as we speak. The cryogenic preservation of the rest of your body ensures not even a day goes by in your body age as the doctors fix you.'

'I'm a talking head in a jar right now!'

'And a noisy one at that.'

I squint. One of the few things left for me to do. I miss my hands. Miss gesticulating, taking phone calls; and punching gits as well.

'Why keep my severed head, Sherlock? Why not put me all under?'

He looks away, coyly. _He'd miss me too much._

'Damn it, Sherlock...' My anger abates at once. 'How long do you reckon before I'm one whole entity again?' I bargain.

'A week', he answers meekly. _I hope he's telling me at least half the truth._

'A week, floating in jam?'

'It's most definitely not _jam_. It's a special cryogenic preservation fluid mixed with my own special blend of vital fluids, vitamins and plasma. It's sure to keep you healthy. It's got extra micro nutrients, I was very careful.'

'Yeah, really? Because I'm getting a migraine.'

'That's from shouting inside what's basically a small aquarium. Even I'm getting a headache out here.'

I frown. 'You're going out. You're leaving me here for days on end while you solve cases. You'll come back and whine that I haven't made you tea and tell me all about your wonderfully full of fresh air day and how many criminals you caught. Now that I can't even hold a gun you don't need me. You might even forget me altogether. I'll be just the symmetric matching piece to put on the mantel, across from your skull. You never talk _to_ _him_ anymore!'

Sherlock's green eyes grow saddened. 'It will never be like that, John, I promise. And you'll have your body back, seamlessly. And you'll be alive. _I almost lost you._ This was the only solution I could come up with to artificially prolong our friendship. I couldn't... _can't_ think of any other way.'

My jar is getting fogged up by my distress. I take a deep breath – how, I don't know, this fluid is amazing – and try to collect myself, so to speak.

'Sherlock, I'm depending on you for everything. It's a lot of trust and I trust you. Don't let me down, alright?'

He nods his vow.

 _ **.**_

'Why keep my head? Where's the rest of me anyway?'

Sherlock looks away and presses his lips thin. I have this immediate bad presage. _Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?_

My friend starts pacing the living room, gathering his thoughts, before he voices them. 'You don't seem to remember what happened before your current state. In a way, I suppose that's a blessing. I don't take kindly having to explain that my brother, Mycroft Holmes, has surpassed even the most despicable and useless level of laziness. He has completely and utterly downplayed the impending doom brought upon by an apocalyptic epidemic spreading through London. Those infected have died and in death they've been acting – well – like classic zombies.'

I try to laugh at the silly statement but my laughter falls short as Sherlock keeps quite serious.

'Zombies? Am I expected to believe in zombies now? What else? Mermaids?'

Sherlock blinks, then frowns. 'Mermaids? Fish are cold blooded creatures while humans have bodies typically maintained at 37°C, how can you hybridize the two?' He shakes his head. 'Be serious, John, this is no laughing matter.'

'Yeah, but zombies? Were they after my brain?'

The detective vows solemnly. 'They shall never have your brain, John. I wouldn't let them! Unless, of course, the goal was obviously to starve them of valuable nutritious content... And the rest of you is safe, currently being fixed by Mycroft's best surgeons. None of them a zombie, I checked.'

I grimace in anticipation. 'How bad is it?'

He mumbles the facts under his breath. All I discern is: '...multiple organ failure...'

'How did I... _die_?'

He snaps, fixing me with intense green eyes. 'You are not dead, John – _not you, never you!_ I will put you back together. Soon.'

Whilst I appreciate his confidence I wonder: 'What happened to me?'

'You were shot.'

I sigh, frustrated. 'Again?'

'And that caused you to fall out of a 4th storey window.'

'Ouch', I gather, with no true recollection.

'Over a parked car.'

'That's a few feet less. And I suppose it helped break the fall.'

He nods. 'You broke your neck on impact with the hood of the parked car.'

'Hence the idea to detach my head, I suppose. Halfway there already', I comment as I silently wonder how can I "get fixed" from such great injuries.

'They were concentrating on you when the first cases of zombified corpses trolled into the A&E. You weren't safe anymore. I had to get your brain out of reach. A cranial ablation would take too long, so I got the whole head in this preserving fluid you are getting to know so well. I created it myself in one of the disused morgue rooms at Bart's', he adds, proudly. 'Not that I had anticipated the need, it was purely an academic exercise at the time. But when I saw you surrounded by imminent danger, I had to use what was available, and I was in a severe time constraint.'

'You weren't safe either', that's to what I pay attention. He should have gone, got himself safe.

The royal family, top politicians, breakthrough academics, a few useless celebrities to keep things lively and Sherlock Holmes – those are the country's top priorities. They are to remain safe in such a catastrophic scenario. What happened? Why wasn't he forced into protection? Why hasn't Mycroft set off the protocols?

Sherlock carries on, in complete disregard for my worry over his safety:

'I had to find a way to bring you here. Baker Street is possibly the last safe refuge in London right now. I missed the transport to safety that Mycroft got me. He thought royal blood was more important than you, John, and refused to give you this prince's place.'

'Which prince?'

'How many are there?' He shrugs. 'Can't remember. Definitely a grown up one, though. The others could fit somewhere.'

'So you got my head, stuffed it in a bell jar full of jam—'

'Not jam, John!'

'—and figured that without a brain in sight, the zombies wouldn't care much about the rest of me. Brought me to 221B in the hope that this last stronghold still holds despite the apocalypse out there.'

He nods.

I further notice: 'So where's the rest of the gang? Why aren't they here, safe?'

'Lestrade insists on doing his bit. The police are all on the streets trying to stop the pilfering, rioting, burning buildings and the tearing down of all Halloween decorations.'

'The Halloween decorations?' I repeat, stunned.

'The zombies have taken prejudice of Halloween decorations. They think we were mocking them. Their feelings of hurt and mistrust have cut the prospect of peace talks.'

'That's not very clever for guys who eat brains. Shouldn't their diet make them cleverer?'

Sherlock looks confused. 'This is not a bad sci-fi novel, John! The zombies are evil and looking for world domination, one tasty brain at a time.'

'But _you're_ safe here?'

'Need you keep asking what I have ascertained already?'

I squint dangerously. 'You idiot! Haven't you figured out yet that your high IQ makes you just the delicatessen any gourmand zombie will want to hunt down?'

Sherlock shrugs off my concern at once. 'I'm safe, you're safe, and the rest of London's brains are so useless they may as well be stuffed with straw or fed to the zombies.'

Suddenly I remember: 'Mrs Hudson!'

'Zombified hours ago, I'm afraid. Otherwise she's just the same, vacuuming downstairs. It really didn't make much of a difference. I blame all the reality shows she watches. Rotted her brain long ago.'

'That's a myth.'

'No, it's not. Mrs Turner, from next door, was quite an avid viewer too.'

'Did you just say "was"?'

'Mrs Hudson had quite the indigestion afterwards. But it's all fine now. They now spend a lot of time catching up on soap operas together.'

I grimace.

'And Molly?'

'Molly Hooper has disappeared from the face of the earth. Could have something to do with the fact that the first zombies came through her autopsy slab as she was on call.'

'Can't you save her?' I grow desperate. 'And Mrs H?'

He shakes his head. 'Too dangerous. I need to keep a cool head, John.'

I bare my teeth in anger. 'Let me be that cool head that tells you to save our friends, Sherlock.'

'I saved you. Isn't that enough?' he minimises.

I try to shake my head. I just end up spinning around, disoriented, in the jelly like liquid. Sherlock takes pity of my awkwardness and taps the side of the jar helpfully. I come to a halt haphazardly.

'They are our friends. That should be plenty. You also need to save London from the zombies, and put it right again.'

'I thought you were saying I needed to put you back together.'

'That too.'

'Not a short order, huh?' Sherlock sighs.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	131. Chapter 131

_A/N: Just blame it on work stress like I do. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.two/four.**_

Zombies are taking over London. The emergency services are too overstretched to respond to the flood of call outs. The streets are full of panicked citizens and opportunistic zombies. It's no wonder radio and television broadcasters have a looped official message about keeping calm, keeping indoors, locking all doors and windows, and they stop just short of advising a nice cuppa while you wait for London's fate to be determined.

It's not even London alone anymore. The whole of England, and beyond, is at stake. Farther, if the zombies take ships or planes out of the island. So all means of transportation are grounded. The threat must be contained.

Not even my time in the army has prepared me to deal with this scenario. We would have laughed of such invention.

Sherlock Holmes, however, is as chilled about all this as he'll ever be.

'Look at all the potential, John! You were always getting distracted by your bodily needs; _"Sherlock, I'm hungry, I'm cold, I'm exhausted, I need to sleep, I'm in love again"!_ No more pesky distractions, you are going to be so focused now! Here's your chance to be fully rational, logical, clear headed. You are to be _perfect_ , John! A lethal soldier and doctor who is logical and cold reasoning? You are a dream sidekick now!'

Sherlock speculates in wild abandonment as he paces 221B's living room, gesticulating, speaking at high speed to the remnants of his bell jar encased friend on the red armchair. Zombies be damned, he's seizing the opportunity in his friend's new status.

I'm found gasping for breath. This is _wrong_ in a plethora of different ways. Sherlock wants a machine for a sidekick, not a friend for partner – and this is proof.

I close my mouth without having said a word. In front of me, Sherlock is still expectantly waiting for my acknowledgement of the fortune that has befallen me.

 _I can't._ Sherlock is wrong, for once.

I'm not the epitome of rationality he predicted. I'm still John, I still have a metaphorical heart; and hurt feelings too.

Finally he gets it. 'John...' he inflates the whispered name with concern and warmth.

Then a tentative, unsure smile graces his trembling lips. 'You're still _in there_ , then. I thought I had lost you, the whole of you. Forget all I said. I knew there was only one way to drag it out of you, and it was by being contrary.'

'What do you mean?' I ask, shakily.

His eyes soften with guilt. 'I don't need another me, John. Honestly, I'm not entirely sure the world could cope with another me. I need you, though. To be my non-rational side, John. To keep me right.'

'And this, what happened just now?'

'In that Bart's basement, where I had laid my instruments and prepared my experiments with the one true test subject I cared about, I didn't have enough time to get your heart. I feared, therefore, that centuries of artistic symbolism were right and I had failed to preserve the most important part of your essence, John.'

'You were testing me?'

'Yes, I guess you can say that', he admits.

'You're lucky I can't punch you right now.'

He smiles softly, recognising me yet again in the disembodied head in front of him.

'Yes, I think I am.'

 _ **.**_

Sherlock powers off the telly with unmasked arrogance.

'Well, that was boring!'

'That was a public announcement, Sherlock, on how people can keep themselves safe under zombie attack season. It doesn't have to entertain you.'

The detective unpockets my gun from his homely dressing gown. _I miss my gun, but I suppose it's only fair I lend it to Sherlock, who can actually use it._

'That gun won't hold them back for long', I warn my friend. 'They are already dead, in case you haven't noticed.'

'I noticed', he retorts as mysteriously as dryly. 'We need a plan, John. First, we must find out how widespread is the contamination.'

'All of Wales, definitely up to the North of England... Didn't you hear the broadcast?'

'That's to be confirmed. The accents can mask the severity of the zombie attack.'

I blink. 'Did you just—'

'Focus, John!' he interrupts me at once. 'Even just your head keeps getting you distracted...'

'We need a plan of action, Sherlock. You said it yourself. What do you propose to do?'

Sherlock paces energetically to the cupboard by the far window. He yanks away the music partitions stand, shoves away a few dusty books on the top shelves, hesitates as he grabs the sepia coloured map of Great Britain and saves it to keep track of the contamination later; finally he opens a drawer at the bottom and pulls out an old looking radio signal transmitting station, complete with microphone and speakers.

'Where did you get that?' I ask, curiously.

'Charity shop, John. Now, focus that severed head of yours!'

'No need to be mean', I grunt under my breath.

He glances over his shoulder at me.

'You keep your sensitive nature intact, how interesting.' He now unpockets a small voice recorder from his dressing gown and dictates his note: 'No damage done to the amygdala or basal cerebral cortex.'

'What does that even mean?'

'Better chances of putting you back together, John!' he answers, adamantly. Then he smiles.

The smile comes across a bit creepy – like he'd smile at a particularly gruesome crime scene that really interested him – but _all Sherlock_.

My friend puts plugs the microphone and manoeuvres the radio dials with confidence. 'London, here. Can you hear us? London here, Sherlock Holmes speaking, can you hear us?'

Only static in return. Sherlock looks a bit preoccupied as he keeps trying other frequencies and getting no answer.

Suddenly we're interrupted by the doorbell. Sherlock looks intrigued.

'You can't answer, mate, it might be a zombie!'

'Can't not answer. Could be Lestrade.'

'He'd call ahead.'

Sherlock gets up from his seat on the sofa. 'He can't call. All network operators have been infected now. All mobile phone services are down.'

'Sherlock, you can't open our front door!' I tell him, tersely.

'Here, John. That should keep your pretty little anxious head busy!' he says, just before he snaps the microphone against the glass jar and heads off the living room, with my gun drawn out.

'London here.' _Oh, what's the use..._

Not even twenty seconds later I hear a full gun discharge, followed by the front door banging shut. I can hear Sherlock's heavy footsteps coming back up the stairs.

'It was just some door-to-door salesman, John.'

'Then why did you fire all the rounds on my gun?'

'Can't take any chances, can we?' I can tell by his belated smirk that he's being funny.

'There's more ammunition on the coffee tin in the kitchen.'

'Ta.'

Sherlock might try to fool me, but I can see the permanent tension in his jawline. He's up against a civilization destroying invasion, and he doesn't even have full use of me as his sidekick.

'Mycroft, what about Mycroft?' I remember suddenly. The all-powerful Holmes brother can help.

Sherlock sighs, I can hear from the kitchen, behind the armchair. 'My iddle brother is taking refuge in his bunker office. He's advised us to remain in Baker Street and let his people take care of the threat. He's a lazy self-centred idiot, and he sends you wishes of a speedy recovery .'

I blink. 'He's doing nothing to sort out this mess?'

'Don't get all worked up, John. It raises the temperature of the fluid and fogs up the glass.'

'Okay, we need more info and we won't get it from your brother. We need Lestrade. We need to know how the first zombie came about.'

Sherlock returns from the kitchen, a bit curious.

'You want to leave Baker Street?'

'We've got London to save. Somewhere there's a primordial crime scene we need to investigate.'

Sherlock ponders my idea for a second, then nods and says out loud to his recorder: 'Addendum - the test subject's danger seeking personality trait remains undamaged too.'

 _ **.**_

Lestrade is looking haggard as he takes a few notes from the ground, by the Ferris wheel. He's looking up in amazement as we approach.

'Lestrade.'

'Oh, hiya, Sherlock.'

The inspector doesn't seem to properly notice me in the darkened cityscape. The streetlights are flickering and the traffic lights are off entirely. In the distance two cars have collided and their anti-theft alarms are soaring in vain. Throughout the urban chaos, Lestrade keeps looking at the top of the Ferris wheel where a zombie is jumping up and down in a tantrum and a vague hope that it sets the wheel back in motion.

'They are not very clever, these zombies, and that almost makes them endearing in a way. If they'd only agree to go vegetarian...' Finally he turns, really looks at Sherlock, and finds what the mad detective is carrying around under his arm.

'Is that... John?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'In part.'

'Did they get to him?' Greg asks as he slowly kneels to have a better look in my eyes. I squint dangerously. He uses his knuckles to tap the bell jar. 'You in there, John?'

Before I even answer, Sherlock moves the jar out of the inspector's reach. 'No touching', he growls protectively.

Greg Lestrade gets up with a daunted look on his face.

'What do you need, Sherlock?'

'John tells me we must go to the first contamination site. We must investigate how it started to know how to end it.'

Greg nods slowly. 'I can find that out for ya two. The first few cases were reported properly, the Yard network system has only crashed offline now.'

'Without orders you don't have a job, inspector... Want to hang out with us? We could use an extra pair of hands.'

'Yeah, sure', he shrugs, while taking out his service gun and shooting an incoming zombie forensic technician. Sherlock looks that way with indifference.

'I was tempted to that just the other day', he comments lightly.

Greg smirks.

'Look, I miss my mate too, Sherlock, and I really hope your brother's lab coat people can put him back the way he was... but why would you bring John to the crime scene when John is like that?'

'Because two heads think better than one, Lestrade!'

'Can he... talk?'

'He can do better than that! He can still be John Watson.'

 _ **.**_

Lestrade has insisted on stopping at a bakery, arguing that he can get himself some coffee and donuts if he's not really on call anymore. Sherlock was about to go ballistic when I pointed out that the inspector could use a sense of normality. His usual routines should help ground him when London is turned inside out.

So here we are, waiting impatiently in a police car for the inspector to return.

'Why did you keep me, Sherlock, if not to keep your rational oversized side in check? You kept me so I would tell you that you are absolutely right; there is little or nothing you can do to save London and everyone we care about from the zombie apocalypse. Because that's not all you would hear from me. You kept me so I would tell you that it is highly irrational, it goes against our every survival instinct, but we need to get out there and save London and our friends. Why? Because that's what we do. I don't care of the whole world is under a zombie apocalyptic threat—'

'—it is—'

'—that is not about to stop us, Sherlock Holmes.'

He nods, slowly.

'I knew there was a reason I kept you around, John.'

'To call you out on your –?'

'That's enough for now, John', he replies, dignified.

'You're welcome, Sherlock.'

 _ **.**_

'Here you go, guys!' Lestrade hands over to Sherlock a couple of paper cup coffees and a paper bag.

'Can't really eat or drink at the moment, but I appreciate the thought', I mutter.

'Wasn't sure', Greg defends himself, turning on the engine.

Sherlock shrugs. 'You shouldn't be hungry either, John', he adds, 'that fluid has everything you need in it.'

'Until everything I need runs out.'

'Well, yes, there's that.'

Greg is overhearing our conversation with a heavy look. He abstains from commenting the extent of Sherlock's clinginess and prefers to inform us:

'First cases seem to have been identified at St Bart's. Which unfortunately means the place is now riddled with zombies.'

Sherlock nods. 'We have no choice.'

I add: 'At least we'll take a few of them down with us!'

'You're not taking the credits there, John, we'll be doing all the work!'

'I can—'

We're interrupted brutally by a heavy thud on the parked police car's roof. Immediately we understand there's a zombie up there, growling as he tries to claw his way in through Greg's open window. Sherlock takes up the gun and Greg hits the accelerator pedal, dunking it to the floor. The car rushes forward and the rooftop stow away slides off due to the speed.

'Look out!' I screech as Greg hits someone on the pavement.

'Zombie', Sherlock drawls at once.

The inspector swerved around a few other bystanders before reaching open road.

'They are not clever, not strong, not fast, but they sure are stubborn. How are we going to stop them?' Greg asks.

'They must have a weakness', Sherlock mutters to that.

'Was that zombie stealing a television?' I notice as we zoom by the rioting going on in the streets.

'Must be a gourmand, John. Seasoning the meal to his taste.'

'Not our division right now, John', Greg adds.

The detective keeps muttering under his breath: 'I need to get to the bottom of this. I need to stop the zombies. And I need to put John back together again.'

Like items on a grocery list for an overworked consulting detective. Greg glances at him from his manic driving.

'You need to keep a cool head, Sherlock.'

My best mate smiles creepily.

'Already do. I take it with me everywhere I go.'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	132. Chapter 132

_A/N: Yes, of course it's a weird dream sequence, how else was I going to get away which such a crazy plotline? -csf_

* * *

 _ **.three/four.**_

Greg Lestrade turns off the car's radio with a grim expression etched into the heavy lines of his countenance. London is thoroughly contaminated by a zombie attack now, and given up for lost. The world's biggest politicians are bickering about how to contain the spreading threat from escaping the great island, and nuclear weapons are now one option on the table of international affairs.

To be honest, don't really know what they are scared of, zombies can't swim; _I don't think._

Sherlock Holmes angrily throws his phone out of the car window, when for the nth time, and by sheer force of habit. He had picked the phone up to make a call, do an internet search, access evidence or just play Tetris (or whatever games people play nowadays); I don't know. Testily Sherlock recovers quickly enough to grab my bell jar and storm out of the car, Greg following suit.

St Bart's. Sherlock's home away from home. Mad scientist lair and research morgue all in one. Home of friends who are missing in this zombie invasion, too. Molly is unaccounted for; on the very place the first sighting of a brain-eating creature has been reported.

 _I fear for Molly._ And if we find the worst, we'll just have to keep her safe, preferably by Mrs Hudson's side.

As we reach the front door, we immediately have to step aside so not to get hit by a speeding gurney on wheels with three zombies riding freely onto the streets. Two of them in paramedics uniforms and the third in a patient's gown.

Again Greg seems to be smiling fatherly at the mischief. 'The naughty sods', he says as he catches my expression. 'They really are enjoying themselves, John. Don't be such a spoilsports! Honestly, when can you get away with doing crazy stuff like that? And, furthermore, it's Halloween – give them a break!'

I have no answer. If the inspector wasn't so tolerant, he wouldn't have put up with the Baker Street's duo this long...

'Look out!' I shout at the two of them as I grasp a movement out of a third storey window. The two detectives both jump to the side and give the falling life support machine a wide berth.

'Hey, that's not funny!' Greg protests. A zombie looks out of the window and shrugs. Dark humour or decluttering, I guess.

' _Hold it right there!'_ a squeaky but decisive voice commands from the building's entrance. We all turn at once.

Doctor Molly Hooper, lab coat flapping in the whirlwind of the zombie pranks that keep going on unaffected on the same corridor, gun steadily trailed on the three of us. Our gunwoman looks heartbroken but decided to avenge us as humans. She must be convinced we are all zombies now. Sherlock and Greg look drained and – well – I'm a portable version of myself now.

What does she imagine? That I'm the highlight of a three course meal to be had? That I'm being pickled?

'Molly, are you okay?' I start nowhere near the impossible task of explaining what's going on.

Her lip quivers, and so does her aim falter just the slightest as she recognises my voice. 'John! Is that really you?'

Sherlock intercedes: 'Not all of him, but enough to get us by.'

'And Sherlock, how—? You sound articulate, I take it the zombies haven't got your brain yet.'

'They must be afraid of an indigestion', Greg comments meanly, possibly because no one is mentioning him.

Molly chuckles, more of a nervous exhale than fully controlled. She finally lowers her gun, and her shoulders sag as a zombie takes hold of her ID and runs off with it. Greg steps forward, unsure, but stops with a smile as the zombie stands by the card reader on the wall, mimicking the missing beep-beep sound. All hospital doors are freely open, as is virtually all of London.

Sherlock wonders, very seriously: 'How come you are safe, Molly?'

She rolls her eyes, dismissing the hero act. 'I hid for my life in the basement. I used the discontinued lab you used before, Sherlock. I saw the rests of your experiments, _what you were up to_.'

The detective coldly looks away. 'Too advanced for your understanding, Molly.'

 _That's rude, Sherlock._ We all sense Molly's hurt feelings, but for some unknown reason she sides with the detective and keeps silent.

Greg assures us: 'We must keep Molly safe. Is 221B still safe, Sherlock?'

Reluctantly, the detective nods.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock assigned beds to our guests out of Mrs Hudson's unused spare rooms upstairs, full of cobwebs and storage boxes, before returning to the living room. I hear it all from my perch on the mantel, where Sherlock thought was funny to tidy me up.

'Are they alright, Sherlock? All this can be very... scary, you know. They may need... to talk about it. I know I wouldn't mind.'

The Baker Street's genius rolls his eyes like a mindless zombie would. The irony is lost on him.

'John, I kept your head, not your heart. Do us a favour and focus on the facts!'

I tilt my head to squint at my friend. It's a difficult gimmick and I always end up over swaying on my preservation fluid.

'Yeah, why did you keep my head? I'm not cleverer than you. With your big ego, it's not like you need another brain, Sherlock...' Suddenly I need to grimace. 'You kept my head so I'd listen to you.' I nod slowly to myself. 'That's good. It's good, I suppose. Means that you actually listen to me. I'm like your conscience or something, and no matter how annoying you think my input is, somewhere under your bullet-proof ego you still want to hear what I have to say. Ponder my advice. Sherlock, I... I appreciate that. I never knew I was... important like that.'

Sherlock spats: 'I may have never noticed either, what with all the nagging. John, I kept your head because—'

'You need me to watch out for you, call out if there are impending zombie attacks, like at Bart's?'

'John, I need you because you talk so much that once in a while you hit upon something clever in your dismembered thought process.'

I squint. 'You said "dismembered" just to annoy me.'

Sherlock smirk. 'What if I did?' he singsongs. 'It's not like you can do anything about it, John.'

He's right. I'm just a spectator for his actions. I turn around and face the wallpaper, resting my forehead against the cold glass.

'Fine, sulk away!' the drama queen still says, mimicking my grimace. I start wondering if Sherlock got influenced by the freedom from social constraints the zombies apparently possess. At some level it must appeal to my misfit friend.

'Time for bed, John', he declares unilaterally. 'We've got a severed body parts curfew here', he cuts off my protests, throwing a crimson velvet piece over the bell jar. Immediately all goes dark inside. _Hey, that's not fair!_

 _ **.**_

Sherlock pulls the velvety cloth from over my glass dome in a magician's magic trick fashion, flooding me with electric light. I wake up with a jolt, at once. It's been hours, but I'm not sure how long.

'What— what's going on? Are we under enemy fire?'

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Relax, it's just me, John.'

Not quite. Sherlock transports my pod to the next room. There I find a kitchen table flooded with laboratory glassware paraphernalia, colourful liquids from round flasks over Bunsen burners looping down columns into regular mugs, a sinister looking galvanometer and some electric circuitry connecting a bowl full of lemons to a light bulb shining irregularly to the rhythm of a pulsating black sludge in a flask that is connected to an inverted water bottle that is slowly having the water replaced by the air bubbles formed.

Kitchen chemistry at Sherlock's best.

'What are you doing?' I ask immediately. Worried, reserved, _helpless._

'Nothing', he responds smugly, impossible as ever.

'That's a black sludge.'

He sizes up the complicated apparatus with a critical eye. 'How observant, John.'

I squint. I can still do that.

 _That slush did not come out of me, no way._ 'Is it alive? Looks like it has a heart beat.'

'Nonsense, John. Just some manganese dioxide and hydrogen peroxide mixture, nothing out of the ordinary.'

Sherlock's first forensic love was Chemistry, it comes to mind. 'Obvious', I note, sarcastic.

The mad genius attaches the tubing to a valve on my jar.

'Oxygen, John. It's feeding oxygen to add to your vital fluid suspension. We need to get your fluid cleared. Think of it as changing the water in an aquarium. Yours is getting murky and you are running low on oxygen.'

I couldn't tell. I don't literally breathe anymore.

I raise my eyebrows together. 'Sherlock, is that why I feel so tired?' I ask, fighting hard to hold back a yawn.

'Yes', he says. But only after a couple of seconds. And something in his voice doesn't quite ring true. I can tell when my friend is fibbing.

Maybe his vital fluid isn't so perfect after all, not having been designed for long periods of extreme body loss.

 _I'm running out of time, aren't I?_

'I'll chuck some extra vitamins in there', Sherlock adds hastily, to keep me at ease. And to prove his willingness he goes ransacking the medicine cupboard in the bathroom.

I force a smile to my face, but it's by no means insincere. This is Sherlock taking care of his mate, in his own singular way.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock has fallen asleep by the scientific contraption of his design, half sprawled on the kitchen table from the waist up, and knees sliding dangerously close to the linoleum floor underneath him. I've been dozing off myself at intervals, but overall trying to keep myself alert to protect Sherlock. London is rioting, a little bit of paranoia is not only warranted but healthy.

Old wood snapping is the first advanced sign I get of an intruder.

'Sherlock, wake up!' I hiss. Nothing. I try again, louder this time. 'Sher-lock!' Nope. The detective is floored by exhaustion. 'Damn it, you'd wake up if there was a gruesome murder about!'

Sherlock stirs at that. He blinks his hauntingly green eyes, straight at me, and recovers quickly: 'Did you just say "murder"? Think before you answer, don't let me down.'

I groan. 'Forget that, there's someone breaking in to Baker Street.'

'Impossible, John. This is Baker Street!'

'I'm telling you—'

He hushes me quiet as he too hears the distinct sounds produced by an unrequested visitor. Sherlock gets up and turns off the kitchen lights – _seriously, that's your best plan?_ – and grabbing a heavy chemistry volume from the table he waits by the doorway, weight held high on his hands ready to come crushing down.

The intruder's footsteps approach. Under the unwanted visitor's breath there is a muttered song. _Is that an aria?_

 _Oh, no—_

The visitor's hand sneaks in to reach the light switch, Sherlock raises the encyclopaedia volume expectantly, and I recoil.

Bright lights flood the kitchen on the flip of the switch, and the chemistry volume thuds heavily against the linoleum.

'Mycroft?' his brother recognises in horror.

I explain the obvious: 'Mycroft is a zombie now, Sherlock. An opera loving zombie, just what Halloween has been missing all these years...'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	133. Chapter 133

_A/N: Okay, let's finish this one off. Think Happy Halloween thoughts. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.four/four.**_

'Mycroft? You are a zombie too? They got you? How?' I ask all the questions as Sherlock struggles to put himself together – so to speak, he's actually the (only) one still in one piece here.

The zombie grimaces. 'I got distracted. A zombie was handing me cake. I'm sure there's a zombie baker's deontology code somewhere stating this deceiving is unadvisable to the professionals of the art...' Then, as fast as the glimpse of the old articulate Mycroft shone through it was replaced by a lazy, lethargic mind. 'Brain is like cake...' he drawls, salivating.

He turns to Sherlock and grins lopsidedly. 'I bet your brain is nice and cakey.'

'Sherlock!' I hiss to my friend, to snap him off his strange haze. The detective reacts at last and pushes Mycroft out of the way, grabbing me as he flees the kitchen. At the landing he's forced to halt again. Molly, Greg and Mrs Hudson are there. The landlady still holding on to a complementary tea tray. She looks fully satisfied, and her guests fully zombiefied.

'Good evening, Mrs H. We've got guest tonight, and, how delightful, you've found that out already. Why won't you entertain them for me? John and I we'll be out just for an hour or so.'

'Are we?' I don't follow.

'Oh, Sherlock, you work too hard...' she laments just like the old landlady she used to be.

Sherlock smiles sympathetically. 'I'm afraid it must be so', he replies, pained.

'And you're taking John with you?' She nods to that. 'At least you're taking a packed lunch with you. We'll see you later, deary.'

And with that she forces Greg and Molly to get out of the way, just like herself, fussing over them with offers of more tea. Sherlock and I are left alone in the landing, glancing at each other.

'John, what we need in this case is to get _a-head_!'

I fulminate him with a heavy stare.

'How long have you been holding on to that one?' I grumble. He neglects to answer me, holding on to my bell jar; essentially kidnapping me again.

'We're going to Bart's, John.'

Sherlock hurries once more, rushing down the stairs, carrying my container under his arm. I'm swaying dizzily in the agitated fluid.

Night time London is waiting outside, but is just as horror-filled as the inside. Lamplights flicker above us, there are shouts in the distance and alarms going off in all directions. Fireworks erupt from above us, and Sherlock groans without turning to look. 'Oh, bother, they found my rooftop secret stash', he groans.

I could ask Sherlock _why_ keep a secret fireworks stash atop a very combustible Victorian era building, but just this time to decide to pass on the all-important question.

'You didn't stop me', Sherlock still answers, petulantly. Reading my mind with the same ease as always. 'You are always at your other job, or oh-so-tired-tonight, John. How about me? I should be your most important job! I get lonely. I come up with mad science ideas when you are not there, and other generally bad ideas I'll keep private if you don't mind, and you just don't even care anymore to stop me!'

I blink. _What?_ He's trying to blame me for being the mad scientist now?

'You actually want me to stop you, you say?'

'Just drop it, John', he finishes moralizing me at that. 'You are not perfect either.'

Cryptic as it all sounds, I get no clarification from the runaway genius that desperately crosses a mutiny-riddled London.

Sherlock's been running his way across London, as we cannot take our chances inside taxis or in the always overly packed Tube, but soon he finds an abandoned motorcycle. Keys still on the ignition, just waiting by the curb, Sherlock sees to wrong in borrowing it in a one-sided decision. He even grabs a helmet from the ground, not far off, and hastily sticks it over my bell jar.

'Hm... Sherlock, you're meant to wear it yourself, you're the one still in one piece.'

He hits the accelerator, my pod nestled precariously between his stretched arms, as he grips the handles tightly.

'Nonsense, John! There's no law left in this land. What would you do if there were no rules, no laws, no consequences?'

I can't answer; but apparently Sherlock would use a rules-free world to save his best friend all the same.

Sherlock finally comes to a halt just by Bart's front entrance. He parks the motorcycle with ease and removes my helmet. 'Should be a piece of cake now, John!' he declares, feigning optimism.

 _He had to jinx it._ Suddenly, from all the murky, shadowy corners, we get accosted by starving zombies.

Sherlock decides he's in a rush, and sprints by the impending threat, again running swiftly with the aid of his long legs, trailing the corridors and stairs he knows so well. All the way down to the disused basement rooms, where in the olden days medical students were allowed to analyse and desecrate unclaimed dead bodies.

 _ **.**_

This is where a lonely Sherlock Holmes spent his time, this is where he felt at his home away from home. This is where he entertained himself, he found company in the pursuit of solitary studies and borderline unethical experiments.

He rather be alone at Bart's dingy basement than in an empty Baker Street.

Finally I get it. What has kept Sherlock in Bart's basement, playing with animation of severed body parts, what ultimately gave my mad scientist friend the proficiency to save my life. He was creating a creature of his kind, a companion to his great mind, a rational and perfect automaton specimen of humanity. He was looking for a bettered version of himself.

When he took a break from his solitude studies of the undead and the maximization of the brain's capacity for intelligence and discovery, Sherlock and I went in one of our cases. Last time it ended badly for me. I knew my luck would run out one day. I don't regret it. I always thought I'd die on the battlefield, and when that didn't happen I was sure I'd die in the battles of London, by Sherlock's side. I didn't count on my best friend's fierce opposition. All the scientific breakthroughs he pursued in self-imposed solitary confinement on the morgue's subbasement, Sherlock suddenly relinquished for he found that, more than creating a perfected version of essentially himself, he wanted to keep his commonplace partner alive. _Sort of._

I'm thankful. No matter how hard I'm pressing Sherlock to be heroic, I'll never stop being secretly amazed at his brilliance.

Sherlock has saved me yet again.

But now I wonder, and ponder, forced to put two and two together. Where did this timely zombie invasion start?

Who was the first suspended life form, and who do I know has the proven capability and lack of moral redlines to create such foul creature?

I sigh softly as it becomes evident to me that Sherlock Holmes has inadvertently created the first brain feeding zombie. Some runaway test subject, I imagine. After that, it was just a matter of mathematical progression. Exponential growth by contamination of the general population, one tasty brain at a time.

That's what Sherlock has been keeping from me. I guess he still holds a modicum of shame, despite all he's done.

He _so_ needs to fix this mess.

I'll help. Together it will be half the trouble, right?

Well, maybe not true mathematical half...

 _ **.**_

There are electrical cables laced along the corridor, accumulating extra power, overhanging from the ceilings exposed wiring, diverted from the several light fixtures. Only a few solitary bulbs shine brightly in the dark corridor, their bluish white light seeming sterile and cold against the metal autopsy door.

'Am I in there?'

'The most of you, yes. Kept alive, John. It's all that matters.'

'And now what? Are you going to zombify me, put me back together, or keep me on your special life support while you guard the door?'

The lonely genius has no time to answer before someone tries to open the locked stairwell door leading to the corridor. Sherlock's face betrays instant panic. _He didn't expect so little time._

'Sherlock! Hurry!' I demand, as my friend runs though those last metres, zombies coming out at us from doors left and right, attracted by the sound of our betraying alive footsteps.

Finally we reach Autopsy 1, Sherlock pushes the doors open, and I shudder – what's rest of me shudders, at least – as I see a long metal pod laid on a metal slab. The metal case that contains the rest of John Watson is centre stage under a blue floodlights, and the pod is hooked up to a wall of machines keeping track of all my vitals in flickering monitors. There are green lines over black backgrounds for my cardiac rhythm, flashing numbers outputting my blood pressure, mysterious blinking lights next to a number of chemical dispensers maxed out, even a small radio giving off numbing background chatter in some morning programme (I think it's the shipping forecast, which is good, maybe at sea the sailors aren't zombiefied yet) presumably to keep me company. Sherlock pulled all the stops to keep me alive, even if not all in one piece.

I'm a talking head, carried under my friend's arm, desperate to be reunited with the rest of me. Maybe then – only then – can I rise and help Sherlock fight the zombies and keep our brains.

A growl paralyses us in terror, and Sherlock stops abruptly (and I hit the glass, nose first), as a zombie raises himself from behind the metal pod and slab. He's drooling as he contemplates the casing, then stops in confusion, looks disappointed and backs away.

A brainless body is of little interest to a purist zombie.

'Leave John alone!' Sherlock shouts, betraying our presence.

Guess he couldn't help himself, but seriously? You've got a nice brain there, Sherlock; how about using it? The zombie was leaving already! Maybe he would have told the others to go too!

The enemy stops short, tilts his head and smiles, lopsided. A typical Mycroft-Holmes-with-cake grin.

 _Two brains, one body? Surely it's Christmas!_

Damn it. He's onto us now. 'Run, Sherlock!'

He doesn't move. 'No', Sherlock declares, trembling, still facing the zombie. 'We've come this far, I need you now, together and whole, John. I need you so we can defeat seven thousand, four hundred and fifty three zombies in London borough alone.'

'Hm... You counted?'

'Rough estimate, John.'

Sounds like a tall order, just for the two of us.

'How are you intending to go past that guy and reattach my head?'

'Rugby.'

'What?'

'I'm tackling him.'

'He's twice your size, Sherlock!'

He blinks and looks down at me. 'Is there a game rule against it?' He's honestly clueless.

 _Oh, lord; he doesn't even know how to play rugby._

'Sherlock, wait!' I shout, but it's too late. He has tossed my bell jar in the air and launched his skinny frame hunching forward against the zombie's stomach. My container is spinning mid air, air bubbles clouding my view. The two players hit the ground, the zombie with his wind knocked out of him. Sherlock, on top, edges forward at once to grab me, but the zombie's hand clasps around his ankle and he dives headlong on the floor. I glance at Sherlock in those last moments before I hit the ground. I can see the terror in his eyes, mirroring mine.

The glass shatters on impact, my head painfully hits the solid ground, liquid splattering everywhere, can't breathe, can't talk...

A sharp metallic bang and I recognise the sound of my gun. The zombie is looking disappointed as his hand got detached, and Sherlock gets up from the floor, rushing towards me. He grabs me from the floor – hey, not by the hair! – and yanking open the pod with one hand, he tosses the rest of me inside. _What the—_

 _ **.**_

I jolt awake from my cosy armchair, heart pounding in my ears, body sore from hours of restless sleep and tumultuous dreaming.

 _I really don't think that curry agreed with me._

I've got a nasty migraine too.

It takes me a few seconds before I realise that I got up from the armchair. I'm left stiff, looking over the piece of furniture that could never understand the relief I feel for being able to part with it. Legs, arms, hands, fingers and a lousy belly ache.

 _The curry._

Sherlock better not have messed with it while I was out working, or have once used a dinner plate to grow bacteria again.

All I know is that I had the weirdest dream ever, and I'm incredibly grateful for having my body back.

I rush towards the window. Baker Street is still the same out there. A taxi is pulling up by the door and an iconic silhouette with a long wool coat and high cheekbones is coming out. The world is the same. I sigh in relief.

Sherlock might not need an extra head on the mantel piece and zombies are not trying to eat the living one's brains.

 _Must be Halloween night again; I chuckle._

 _ **.**_


	134. Chapter 134

_A/N: How did I get here, to this plotline, and what did I want to achieve? I have no idea. It fits in with the canon, I suppose. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

'I don't like this. I want to go home.'

'Shhhh. It's alright, John. You're just under a high fever. You don't know what you're saying. The medicine will soon kick in.'

'I don't know who you are, but you don't know who you are messing with. My friend will hurt you if you don't let me go.'

A soft chuckle echoes in the dusk of the room.

'John, it's me, Sherlock. There's no one else here, just us. You're safe.'

I shake my head against the creased, damp pillow.

'He's taking his time. But he'll come. One time he took over two years. Still came. He was dead then. He's alive now.'

I sigh fills the space between me and that voice. Familiar yet disembodied.

'You won't ever let me forget that one, will you, John?'

'He's got my back. All the time. Except that one time when they tortured me, but he doesn't know that. He doesn't ever need to.' My words rush forth, hidden, secretive still.

'John?' The voice sounds shocked now.

'He'd be upset. He says he's a sociopath, but he's the most atypical sociopath I've ever seen. And I'm a doctor, I see a lot of people.'

'John, what did you mean by what you just said?' that deep voice queries quietly.

I whisper harshly in the dusk:

'Don't leave me alone. There are monsters in the room.'

 _ **.**_

I had a bad reaction to a medication, on top of a nasty strain of the flu. It happens, even to a doctor. I should have read the label more carefully, knowing I'm prone to react to certain components. Guess I was already feverish. Which just underlines that a doctor shouldn't really doctor himself. My bad.

Sherlock caught on to my restlessness, upstairs. He took up the violin – either to sooth me with its melodies or to drown out the whimpering sounds I made in my shallow sleep, I don't know – then finally decided to go upstairs, forced his way into my bedroom, to have a first hand look at the patient.

I was feverish, I was speaking to no one in the room.

Sherlock should know. He does it often when he's healthy.

My best friend heard me share more than he had bargained for. Now he can't let a mystery lie. He needs to find out what have I hidden from him.

 _ **.**_

'It must have been all in my imagination, Sherlock', I assure my clingy friend as I pour him a morning cup of tea.

Only it's not nearly morning, it's evening and I have finally got out of bed. Still feeling a bit debilitated by the high fever that now abated and, as a further good sign of recovery, I'm hungry and thirsty.

I bet Sherlock is hungry too, he won't have remembered to eat, despite the absence from an all-consuming case.

Facing the stove I wonder if we've got eggs and bread.

'In the oven, John.'

 _What?_ I turn around at my friend's cryptic words.

He narrows his feline eyes. 'You are still feverish, John, despite your assurances. There's perspiration lining your forehead, and then there's that crease...'

'Crease?' I repeat.

'It only emerges when you are in pain.' He approaches closer, too close, with an outstretched finger and an overbearing manner, and gently touches my forehead. 'Right there, John. It's honest and true, much like you.'

I glance away. Maybe. Wait, was there a warped compliment in those words? Doubtfully, the detective that manipulates and deceits the words at the whims of his reason would hardly value straightforward, nothing-to-hide, honesty.

Sherlock looks slightly disappointed, but immediately opens the kitchen oven to show me what's inside. A full English breakfast, kept warm, by the looks of it.

I blink. 'You did this yourself?'

'Yes. I followed your example. I'm a genius, remember? Wasn't that hard for a genius.'

I smirk. 'What if I just wanted chicken soup?' I ask, mischievously.

'Microwave.'

'Chinese?' I further test.

'Take away is five minutes away. We've got every international cuisine around, this is London after all.'

I lose my smugness at once. He's really serious.

'You let me make the tea! Was there tea already made, hidden somewhere in the kitchen?'

'No', he reports with a bit of a grudge. 'Tea never comes out quite like you make it, John. Tea is your thing alone, I'm afraid.'

I cautiously shake my head with a small smile.

'Then let us tuck in at once. I'm ravenous, and you should be hungry too, Sherlock.'

He tilts his head. 'I'm not the sick one and yet you insist on taking care of me.'

'What's wrong with that?'

'Nothing. It's predictable, actually, in a comforting sort of manner. Like coming home after a long day. It's quite like... you.'

I roll my eyes as I take my first bite, believing I'm being played. He imitates me at once.

'Food's really nice, you know. Genius standard for sure.'

He smiles to my appreciation but looks at me in concern. 'You're starting to shiver again, John.'

'Fever is returning. I'll take some ibuprofen and hit the bed. I'll be fine in the morning.'

There's something in my friend's lost gaze that touches me. As if he's really concerned about me.

'It's just the ruddy flu, mate. Even doctors get it.'

He unpockets some medicine. 'It's not the common virus I worry about', he tells me, being all enigmatic again.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock made me stay in the living room's long sofa, cocooned in a blanket, as he insisted my sweaty bedsheets were no comfort to my tired, aching body. He then made no effort to change the offending bedding linen and stopped me from doing so myself.

The ibuprofen is kicking in at last, while I burrow into the leather cushions, making myself as small as I can. A kind flatmate has dimmed the lights within the room and has now picked up the violin for one of his weirdly timed incursions on musical creation.

I sigh happily, allowing the scene to ground my sore body and mind in safety.

 _ **.**_

'John? John, are you with me?'

'Let me sleep!' I groan.

'Your fever is up again, despite the medication.'

'Pfft!' is all I see fit to say. 'I'm fine.'

'John, tell me about your secret.'

I giggle at that. 'Which secret?'

The diffuse silhouette of my best mate kneeling on the hard wood floor by the sofa tilts his head. 'How many secrets do you keep from me?'

'Nine.'

He gulps, then looks at me in admiration. 'Nine', he repeats. 'I believe I am aware of seven you still think you keep for yourself, and the eighth I'm solving tonight; that still leaves one unaccounted for. John, I don't know how you do it, you are the one mystery I can never reach the end of.'

My eyelids have dropped back to blissful sleep mode.

'John. Tell me about the one that hurt you, please. The one I don't know about.'

I nod, and sigh tiredly.

'He tricked me. Suddenly he was gone. Left all the burden on my shoulders to carry.'

'That's it, John. Tell me all about it. I'll get your revenge for you. How did you meet that person?'

'Mike introduced us. He was looking for a flatmate too.'

There's a long silence after that. An uncomfortable one, I sense, but maybe that's just my fever talking.

'Okay, John, I acknowledge that', the voice finally says, as dignified as it can, right as I was about to fall asleep. I come back to reality with a jolt, followed by a cold shiver.

Sherlock tucks in the blanket around me, like a mother would over her child.

 _ **.**_

'No! _Geroff!'_

I'm struggling but all my movements are hampered and my struggles are futile. I whimper as a soft hand comes tentatively touching me on my good shoulder.

'John, it's just a bad dream. You're currently fighting a blanket, and losing the fight too. You're safe here.'

I want to believe that voice, but what if the bad ones come back? They'll kill me next time, I can't take it any longer, but I cannot falter either. They don't believe me; that Sherlock is dead. I saw him jump with my very own eyes. No one could have survived that fall. I felt his cold skin with my own hand. It had no pulse. They say he's alive, that's not true. They haunt me because they are sure he's alive somewhere – and a hidden part of me wishes that were true, and he had just fled, forsaken me, was alive and well somewhere out there; but he's not, Sherlock is never coming back.

Mumbled words spring from my lips of their own accord, it'd be impossible to make sense of them, even if there was someone nearby, someone who cared, but I lost all those who care a long time ago. Sherlock was just the last to go. I'm alone now. Alone again.

Tepid water reaches my lips; it's vile. Something lumpy in it too. I could swear my over sensitised head is being cradled then lowered to soft pillows. My lips are chapped, my voice is gritty as I start to murmur lost, ancient words.

A familiar voice that always appears when I'm in trouble makes itself known once again: 'Farsi or Dari? You picked up a new language in Afghanistan. John, you never cease to amaze me, you are an endless source of entertainment. Now rest awhile. The fever will drop soon, I promise.'

 _ **.**_

That melodious voice returns some time later.

'Mycroft never told me. Undoubtedly he feared it would tempt me to an early return. I was in Japan at the time. Chasing a very productive branch of Moriarty's network. You'd enjoy hearing about it. Had modern geishas, honour rituals and ancient samurai swords, the kind of details you like, John.'

'He's not coming', I insist, exhausted.

'No, I didn't come. I mistakenly thought you were safe. All I did, I did to keep you safe. And I would have undone it just as fast if Mycroft would have told me. Which is why he didn't.'

'There's a gun. Across the warehouse', I whisper harshly.

The voice carries on regardless of my chance to free myself from this nightmare:

'Just spoke with my brother. I phoned him. He confirmed your secret. That you were kidnapped and held against your will. That torture was involved to extract from you an information you didn't have, could never give them.'

'I have the gun. I shot two of them. I need to call Mycroft. That useless moron will have to clean up this mess now.'

I hear a soft chuckle at a distance. 'He did. You went back to work, and your ordinary life, and carried your secret with you. When were you ever going to tell me, John?'

'I miss Sherlock more than anything.'

The voice lowers itself to a broken whisper: 'I would have come, John, against all I did, had I known you were in danger. But had I come back early, we wouldn't have Baker Street and our lives back. It would all be gone.'

'I'm tired.'

'I know, John. Just sleep. Your fever has broken. I'll be here.'

'Where's my gun?'

'Just drop it, John. Tonight you don't need to soldier on. I'll be here for you. _I'm here_ , _you're safe_ and we earned Baker Street.'

 _ **.**_

'Sherlock, have you seen my phone?'

The morning light bathes a 221B in more disarray than usual. The creased blanket is draped from the sofa cushions and several glasses of water are lined by ascending water level on the coffee table.

The detective with the heavy bags under his eyes responds to my query with a thoughtful expression, from a comfortable seat on his armchair. 'Kitchen table, I believe. Along with your keys and other pockets' contents. Why do you need old supermarket receipts and a pencil, though, is beyond me.'

'To take notes, Sherlock. I'm a blogger, remember?' I smile.

'You need to better train your memory in order to avoid bulky, recyclable and potentially stabbing items.'

I smile. 'Yeah, I'll get on it some other day, my head is still a bit sore.'

He ponders me quietly.

'I'm glad you are feeling much better', he unusually confesses an emotion.

I won't ask how he knows, something about my forehead creases, I expect.

'I really appreciate you sticking around, Sherlock. I was mostly out of it. Did I say anything weird?'

He smiles like a cat with a secret.

'Yes.'

'Oh.' I worry. 'Did I say anything embarrassing?'

'I'm not sure. I would need a Farsi dictionary to answer that one, John', he dismisses with a wave of the hand.

I feel relieved. Can't have been all that bad, I surmise.

 _ **.**_


	135. Chapter 135

_A/N: Not sure this idea has been matured enough, sorry. More to come. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.1**_

Another day at Baker Street, another dry curare dart zooming past my head as I peacefully flip the newspaper onto the next page. I'm fairly sure that Sherlock is timing his sport with my page turns. I haven't reacted, I'm not even the target, and the daredevil detective is aiming at the bison head on the wall, I just happen to be sat at the desk, near the firing line, while he takes my armchair.

'There's a loose spring in your chair, John! It keeps poking me!' Sherlock omplains bitterly.

I look up, utterly baffled. 'Just one?' I challenge.

'Well, just one you need to know of. The other keeps poking me in the unmentionable places.'

I bite a smile.

'That's my chair, alright.'

'We could get you a new one', he suggests, idling as he slides on further across the seat.

I shake my head, determined. 'I like my chair. It's staying.'

Sherlock huffs and puts down the poisonous darts. He snuggles further in the battered Afghan blanket and mutters: 'I could use a cuppa, John.'

I roll my eyes and flip the paper closed.

'Fine. But you could have said Yes five minutes ago when I boiled the kettle... Want the crosswords section?'

He decries: 'They are too easy!' but still he reaches out with an open hand. I get up from the desk, and give him the newspaper and a pen. He forgets to thank me aloud as usual.

We stop short on our domesticity scene when we hear two sets of footsteps up the stairs. Sherlock and I glance at each other, recognising them at once.

In less than a moment, it seems, Mrs Hudson is ushering in Mycroft Holmes. If one were to judge by the expression they both sport at the moment, none of them is actually well impressed by the other.

'You are meant to be a genius, I'm sure you can guess where the kettle is', she snaps as she turns away. 'I'll bring you some blueberry muffins when _he_ goes, boys!' Mrs Hudson promises us with warmth and leaves, going back down.

The older Holmes dry swallows before curling an upper lip in hurt and disdain.

'Mycroft', Sherlock identifies as a greeting. 'I take it the CIA didn't hold you up long?'

The older Holmes forces what in his mind passes as a social smile to his dead eyed face. 'Yes, it's that day of the month. How clever of you to keep a mental calendar.'

I look from one to the other brother. Monthly meetings with the CIA? Didn't know of that. Wonder what they discuss in them. _Are we ever mentioned in them?_

Sherlock glances at me and reproaches his brother: 'You are firing up John's paranoia, again.'

Mycroft smirks as if to state he can't have that pinned on him, but finally notices me. 'Still courageously upbeat, I see. How selfless of you to soldier on like that, John! You seem to be complacent with my baby brother's mad whims, while he lounges on your chair with a blanket over his lithe form. Tell me, has he really overexerted himself all that much?'

I look around at the stare of 221B. _I'd say so._

Sherlock takes a yawn. 'You could have badgered us all the way from Westminster, brother. It's called multitasking. Instead you came here.'

'Yes', he ponders with a grimace. 'It pains me equally as much. Here', he takes a manila file from the inside of his pristine pinstriped suit. 'You've got yourself a new fan, Sherlock.'

My friend's green eyes light up indecently as he focus upwards towards his brother and the file, innocence also permeating his tired features, lifting them. Things are never what they seem with the Holmes brothers.

'Another Moriarty?' I ask stiffly.

Mycroft is serious enough now. 'Hopefully not. But this one has killed and maimed go get Sherlock's attention too.'

Sherlock wanders, glancing at the small print pages. 'Any links to the late Moriarty?'

'Doubtfully. This one is more crude in style and less megalomaniac in fashion.'

Sherlock huffs at that and tosses the file away onto his own armchair, where it lands on a pile of scientific journals.

'And _why_ should I be interested?'

'To help Sweden.'

We both look at Mycroft in awe. 'Sweden?'

'He tells the Swedish government that he will not stop killing until he is brought Sherlock Holmes.'

The consulting detective sighs. 'He drives a hard bargain for an autograph. John can easily forge my signature. Do that for me, will you, John? There. Case solved. Without leaving the flat.'

Mycroft tilts his head to concede the joke. 'Sweden gave him Sherlock Holmes. An alias of the real deal, of course. He believed it. The officer got caught in a trap. I hear his multiple internal injuries will heal in time.'

I hiss under my breath. 'Are you telling me this creep doesn't know what Sherlock looks like? That he didn't, I don't know, researched him online?' I protest, incredulous.

Sherlock is smirking fondly – I can still catch one last glimpse – as he berates me:

'John, it pains me to break your little blogger's heart, but your narratives do not hold high numbers of viewers in the foreign lands of Sweden.'

I find Sherlock's humour a bit dry, but carry on regardless:

'Well, then. It's fixed, innit?' I look at Mycroft. 'I'll go in, play Sherlock's part, while he deduces my way out to the arrest. Sweden is happy, Sherlock is safe and you lay off. Happiness all around. Easy.'

'John?' _Bless!_ Sherlock looks like a truck just hit him. I really don't think the genius saw it coming.

Well, Sherlock is a high prize target. I'm not. I'm a retired soldier with a bummed shoulder and a lot of therapy issues. I'm almost dispensable. If he finds me out, he won't bother much with me. But I don't intend to give him the chance. I'll be a convincing self-absorbed genius git. Got enough experience dealing with one.

'John!' Sherlock's expression is so utterly raw that almost derails my firm decision. But it's meant to protect him, I need to stick to my guns.

 _I can do this._

'I won't let you, John. And for what, all that selfless bravery? For me? I'm hardly worthy of such loyalty and I will not stand for you paying the ultimate price.'

I shrug. 'Let's just say I owe you one from three years back', I mutter, stubbornly. _St Bart's, remember?_ I glance at Mycroft, he's deep in thought. His hesitance is obvious, and his little brother resents it at once, but I know better; Mycroft's life aim has always been to protect Sherlock. He'll do it now again, with the best trump card he's got – John Watson.

Mycroft sighs exaggeratedly. 'One week, Sherlock. That's all it took, and your brave doctor is ready to abandon ship.'

'It's not that', Sherlock mutters angrily. I just spat:

'Shut up, Mycroft!'

Together we both watch Sherlock push away the blanket and grab the near wheelchair, the real reason he's taken up my chair. I want to help but I know from experience that Sherlock is fiercely independent, and would not tolerate being aided in front of his brother. It still pains me to watch. I know first hand a bullet wound hurts with the muscle damage and the stitches. Sherlock has been as patient and well behaved as one could hope for, but with Baker Street being a Victorian stronghold with narrow doorways and stairs, it's not like the detective can easily keep his usual lifestyle. He's stuck indoors and slowly driving himself out of his mind.

That's why I must take his place, go to danger and report back, allow him to live vicariously through me, so that he will not force on himself more than advisable for his speedy recovery.

'Sherlock, all these years I've admired your work, your amazing mind. Let me have a go at it, let me be you to this raging lunatic. That way I can keep you protected and entertained. You know I can take care of me. The worse it can happen is that you get bored of my reports and complain, which is what you always do anyway.'

He squints, unsure. 'Live audio feed? Satellite transmissions? Local police back up on call?'

I smirk. 'The lot. I bet you it's more fun than hunting down a dead bison', I point out the mounted head on the wall behind me, full of darts sticking out.

He hesitates. 'And who would nurse me?' he adds, arrogant as a child in a grown man's body.

'Mrs Hudson will take good care of you. You like her tea and her fussing.'

He presses his lips thin in silent admission.

'You'd have to return as soon as the case was over. And bring a flat pack of meatballs.'

I blink. 'That's both unrealistic and largely stereotypical.'

Sherlock nods. 'I've been told the Swedish people have a good sense of humour. I'm counting on it.'

Mycroft glances at me. 'Let us hope so. One fake Sherlock Holmes coming up!' he finishes with a quirked eyebrow. _What's the worst that can happen?_

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	136. Chapter 136

_A/N: Imagine something clever here, please. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.2**_

I look on out of the compact double paned window as the airplane glides into the spare layer of white clouds that covers Stockholm and surroundings. The thick glass fogs somewhere in the outer layer, mingling aircraft with cold white strands of clouds. It would be fair to say that I'm well travelled; indeed, a good number of people still know me as "Three Continents" Watson. But as I glance at the woman snoring next to me, on the too narrow, too close airplane seats, and realise once again she's spilling into my seat and my shoulder, I give in to that feeling inside me, an empty space that makes me wish I hadn't been travelling on my own.

In my luggage I bring a spook's satellite connection headset that gets inserted in the ear and is near invisible to anyone around me. This way Sherlock can talk to me. I can bring my friend with me all the way over, have my very own transmission wire tuned to 221B Baker Street. As for my dejected friend, left behind to mull over his transport's malfunction and slow self-repair, he can hear all I say in less than a second's delay. We can have real time conversations even if separated by a vast amount of sea and distance.

The only way Sherlock will be able to see the crime scene is when I send him footage access through my phone, which he'll study eagerly. Or we can video sync if I'm alone in the room. As for all the other investigative tools Sherlock is known to commonly resort to, such as sniffing a corpse to test ripeness, or pinching exposed toes to check for frostbite, or even stealing evidence to analyse under the microscope or the fluorescent light, he will have to direct me to do it myself. _I have a strict not-too-gross policy on following such instructions._

It's going to challenge Sherlock, to have only partial access to a crime scene and to have to direct me about and wait until I fulfil the tasks he'd whizz through with barely an intellectual effort. My friend can be quite impatient, overbearing, curt and dramatic on an actual visited crime scene, let alone in the privacy of his home with a lackey at his disposal and a looming dark energy brooding in him.

He'll even – lord forbid – come to miss having me actually around, I might add.

So why did Mycroft bring us a case that Sherlock cannot go out to solve? Why taunt his brother with the limits his body imposes? Did Mycroft seriously believe he was being kind to me by offering me an escape route out of 221B? Oh course not, Mycroft Holmes is impervious to concepts of kind or malicious intent. He's above all that, he is amoral and merely sees the world as interlinked pieces that he can play so they'll fall into place in his international intrigue mental board game. Mycroft cares, if at all, only for one exception to his life rule that caring is a disadvantage; and that exception is exclusively Sherlock.

Why would Mycroft assume Sherlock would be better off without me about? He trusts me, to a big extent, to keep his brother safe. Which I willingly do, but not to please or follow instructions from the older Holmes.

 _Is Mycroft scared that Sherlock might grow such dark moods that he'll go too far and drive me away from Baker Street?_

Because, honestly, that's not going to happen.

So I must assume Mycroft was solely wanting to provide food for the mind of the emaciating detective. Which beggars the question "why this specific case". Does he have vested interest in it, is he trading international favours with Sweden diplomats, is there more than meets the eye to this idiotic criminal? I'm kind of hoping for the latter, in order to keep my mate distracted. I'm hoping I just gave Sherlock a fresh lifeline, and not just forced him to be miserable alone and in pain, as he watches me saunter about a crime scene he'd wish he could visit.

The airplane wheels touch the ground forcefully, jolting us in our seats. The woman next to me grunts herself awake and backs away from my shoulder with confusion and indignation. _Objects may have shifted in the overhead compartment_ ; I must make sure of the integrity of Sherlock's precious microscope on the first opportunity.

That's the proof, right there, that my friend doesn't resent me for my freedom. Sherlock is very clingy to his microscope, possibly second only to his violin and his skull. Yet, he insisted I'd bring it and made good use of it.

I need to establish contact as soon as the air stewards lets us out of this commercial flight.

 _ **.**_

'Sherlock?' I start, unconvinced, tapping the little earpiece to clear any static.

' _John, I can hear you loud and clear. I can even hear you readjusting the piece. Stop fiddling.'_

Cool trick. 'Can you hear me breathing?'

' _Alas, no. I shall refer that criticism to my brother.'_

I sigh, as I choose a direction in the busy airport, dragging Sherlock's posh carry on luggage (and contents; it's mostly his stuff, and some of my clean underwear).

'How's your leg, Sherlock?'

' _Shot through'_ , he answers acidly.

I repress a shiver. 'Hardly. It was a graze. I was there, I tended to it.'

' _I, for one, have never had complaints about the medical care I received from you, John.'_ I bite down a smile, as usual Sherlock has nothing but compliments for me as a doctor.

'So, how's your leg?' I repeat.

' _Taking forever to heal'_ , he finally takes the edge of his words. _'I want to join you, John.'_

The words almost stop me on my tracks. It's heart-breaking to hear such candid admission.

'You are meant to rest', I remind him, patiently. 'Not take a long immobile position on a flight. Don't you trust me to take your place before a stupid killer who targets you but doesn't even bother finding out who you are?'

Sherlock takes a few seconds to answer, to my surprise. _'The killer is challenging me as a fast track to success. It has happened before, John.'_

'Really?'

He chuckles lightly through the line. It warms my heart that he can turn his mood around, can even enjoy himself a bit now we're talking. _'Only you John, would have so much faith on me that you wouldn't notice when criminals use me for fame rather than a more personalised choice.'_

I chuckle along. 'Oi, don't you go thinking you're special now...' I joke.

' _Frankly, you never noticed that defenestrating criminal in Wales couldn't spell my name right in his taunting letters to the FBI.'_

'It was just once. And he was likely dyslexic. Your name wasn't the only misspelling.'

' _And the Amish gang? They had no idea who I was, never heard of me.'_

'They were Amish, they willingly cut themselves from our modern world!'

' _One would assume I'm not important!'_

I smile softly. 'You are important to me, Sherlock.'

He stops his rant due to shock. _'Thanks, John?'_ It's a dubious, unsure and innocent reply.

'Yes, "thanks" is a good thing to say.'

' _Good.'_

'Good.'

I start getting my passport out of my pocket as I balance my belongings when I hear odd but not unfamiliar sounds through the head piece.

'Are you flushing a toilet?' I ask, outraged. A middle aged couple passes me by on the cue with reproaching expressions; they think I'm talking to myself, I realise belatedly. And they just jumped the cue, so shame on them too.

' _Do not worry, I won't forget to wash my hands.'_

'You could have – I don't know – taken the headpiece off!'

He sighs heavily. _'You are a doctor, a little bit less prudery might be permissible?'_

I shake my head, oblivious that Sherlock won't hear that. Somehow he guesses easily.

' _You are not to take the earpiece out at any time do you hear me?'_

'Sorry, there's some static on the line', I improvise, as I get the earpiece out and pocket it to go through passport control.

 _ **.**_

'Mr Sherlock Holmes?'

There's a hopeful stranger welcoming as I come to the end of the airport's labyrinth of corridors. I turn in surprise and it takes me a second to realise he means me. I'm undercover for the duration of my stay.

'Yes, of course. I'm Sherlock Holmes, and you are?' I ask, already shaking hands with the calm, pondered man that greets me.

 _'The police commissioner in charge of the case is_ s _ixty years old, grey thinning hair, six foot one, blue eyes, high blood pressure, has two kids and a summer house near a sky resort', Sherlock helpfully tries to make a positive identification._

Don't know about the kids or the sky resort, so I just wait for the stranger's answer.

'Commissioner Chandler, nice to meet you. Well, you don't look one bit like your brother, Mycroft.'

'No. Erm... we've got a much varied gene pool running in the famiy', I argument, looking about. 'Some of us are hidden gingers.'

' _John, he's the investigator in charge of the crime scene you've gone to check. Be nice to him. Talk to him. Say something, don't just stand there! Football! Beer! The weather! Pick something to talk about!'_

Sherlock is not helping much, no matter how well intended, and I have to start talking over his suggestions _("Tea! Guns! Spontaneous combustion!")_. 'I'm surprised, didn't realise you'd meet me at the airport.'

' _That's lame, John! I would never say that!'_

'It's no trouble, Mr Holmes. Come, this way!'

 _ **.**_

'I'm here at last', I mutter, loudly enough so that my friend can hear me through the secret feed, and generically misdirected so the police inspector won't find me too awkward. Just enough awkward, I suppose; I've got Sherlock's reputation to uphold, after all, and if nothing more my friend is known for being inscrutable and quirky.

We're in a small flat on a busy city centre, and above the spoiled sofa there's a message sprayed in suspicious red ink on the wall. It says "Sherlock", followed by a strange looking character, perhaps a scribbled signature of the criminal artist or a clue to his identity. At once it reminds me of Moriarty's "find Sherlock" taunt, and I can hardly repress a shiver.

'Long flight?' the inspector comments conversationally. The local police officer is open, welcoming, respectful and still keeps an aura of authority clearly imprinted about him. Doesn't seem bothered in the slightest by his famous guest, or the fact that I asked him if we could come to the crime scene directly from the airport.

'Not too bad. It was the landing that roughened me up.'

Nothing out of the ordinary in the room, slight signs of a struggle, crime scene clean up team will have lots to work on, as must have had the forensic team. What could there be left for Sherlock?

'I'm sorry to hear that', the commissioner retorts. 'Perhaps you'd like to join me and my colleagues tonight as we celebrate the retirement of one of our force. To clear your mind a bit and keep off jet lag.'

I smile involuntarily. That's very thoughtful. Immediately I'm derailed by my ear-fed inner crime barometer: _'Disregard that, John. He's not likely to discuss any new leads to this case that I cannot gather myself with your assistance.'_

Sure; that's the only way anyone would force Sherlock to socialise for free.

'If you don't mind me saying', the inspector trails on and I find myself holding me breath, I know something's off, 'I expected you to be taller.'

I smirk. 'You don't know how many times I get to hear that.' Through the headset, Sherlock huffs contentiously.

'And more of a brunette. '

'Erm... You know, just fitting in.'

'And a lot more like the published pictures of you. In fact, you look just like the spitting image of your assistant, John Watson.'

' _Doctor John Watson. Correct him, John!'_

I politely smile calmly. 'Sherlock...'

'Is busy?' he helps me, being all decent again.

'No, not at all. But he couldn't come. He's still extremely interested and kept updated at all times.'

' _At what time starts EastEnders, John?'_

I proceed, bravely. 'He's just... eccentric like that.'

'Oh, I see. I heard about that.'

' _John, ask him at once what he means by that!'_

Oh, sush it, Sherlock! For a moment I desperately wished Sherlock could hear my thoughts in this near telepathic conversation. Unfortunately it's mostly a one-way street.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	137. Chapter 137

_A/N: Still not British, or Swedish! A bit short, sorry, I'm just really too tired to give you guys better material. Please accept my apologies. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.3**_

'So?'

Rikspolischef Chandler, police commissary from the Swedish task force, has moved to the perimeter line set up outside the block of buildings, organising his efficient resources. He has left me with his team of junior investigator and forensic technicians, impressing on them this favoured idea that I'm actually Sherlock Holmes. Probably because he's a decent guy; more than likely so he can watch me squirm.

One of the technicians on the scene soon addresses me, impatiently. 'I said "So"?'

I turn, curiously. The man is tall and thin, dressed in a standard disposable white overall, complete with evidence collection bags in his hand. He expectantly defies me for a clever answer.

'So you did.' I acknowledge.

'They say you are some big shot investigator. Surely you must draw some theories from this crime scene, Mr Holmes.'

I smirk, ignoring the indignant huff from Sherlock through the audio feed. I know my friend doesn't get goaded into sharing his theories prematurely by such an easy trick. As his faithful doppelganger I must play the role faithfully. 'I find', I start to lecture in a good Sherlock Holmes impression, 'that theorizing before establishing all the available facts leads to poor deductions and, frankly, wastes my time.'

The man seems taken aback, but strangely enough responds with respect to my no-nonsense response; surely more respect than he'd ever gather from any miraculous theory I could ever come up with. Sherlock Holmes meets John Watson's style.

' _That's nice, John.'_

'Hm?' I grunt under my breath, for Sherlock alone.

'You're learning. I don't quite believe you're as useless as I was once used to.'

I'm sure in the detective's mad inner world there is actually a compliment in there.

Now to really play Sherlock... god help me!

I swoop to the floor on my hands and knees to follow on the direction of the last thing the victim saw, according to the outlined silhouette on the floor. Apparently he saw dust accumulated under the sofa, along with some loose change, a button and a crumpled tissue. I scrunch my nose to the findings, but still wonder what dying man would much care for the cleanliness under the sofa as he knew he was dying. Gasping for air, pain muddling his every conscious effort, he turned this way.

I'm an army doctor. I know this isn't right. It just doesn't work that way. Cleaning floors is not your last thought. Emotions are. Anger, love, regret, fear, or even denial. Not tidying up. It could be he was facing away from his attacker, but all evidence points out to a stabbing that nicked a vital artery and gave the victim a drastically short life span. Without an operating room on call and bags of blood to replenish the vital fluid he was losing too fast, he stood no chance. The killer left no footprints in the sprawling pool of red viscous liquid on the floorboards. It would seem the murderer stabbed the victim and then left without waiting to see the death through.

Before I think it through I'm lying on the floor as near as possible to the body's contorted position.

Definitely reaching for under the sofa.

And yes, I understand Sherlock's unorthodox methods a bit more.

I also get a new insight into his impatience when confronted by shock and horror, as the crime scene crew eyes me in a mix of reproach and condemnation. I sigh, shall I explain it, or leave it all to Sherlock's fame of eccentric behaviour?

'Okay, we're wrapping this one up!' says one of the investigators as he receives word through the radio. 'Are you done here, Mr Holmes?'

' _No, I haven't even started!'_ the real Sherlock is fuming, back in London. _'John, I have no idea of what you are doing, probably just looking around like a dear in headlights. Don't you dare leave yet!'_

'I need some time more', I reply.

'We are leaving a patrol car outside, just flag them once you're done, Mr Holmes.'

And just like that, they all prepare to exit, and I'm going to be all alone on a crime scene. Don't know if I find it odder because Sherlock is not actually here with me, or because I'm in a foreign land. The books on the shelf read enigmatic titles in Swedish, the house's layout reveals intricacies of a dead and gone person of a different culture but so much like my own, and I'm here to try to piece it all together, but nothing – no theory – comes to my mind.

 _ **.**_

'Okay, Sherlock, it's just us now', I start with a sigh. 'Let me get my phone out to video conference with you.'

' _Have you done it yet?'_ he demands, impatient as only a house bound investigator can be as his colder-than-ice crime scene cools further for leads at every second that passes.

'No, hang in there! I'll call you.'

' _My phone isn't ringing, John!'_

'Hang in there, I—'

A sharp burst of pain ignites in the back of my head, colourful dots of light swim in front of my eyes and the world tilts dangerously.

' _John, what's happening? John!'_

 _ **.**_

' _John._

' _John?_

' _John._

' _John._

' _John.'_

I groan as I come to, curling over myself, holding my sore head.

' _John!'_ There's relief in my friend's repetitive use of my given name now. I look around to find his presence but immediately recall he's not really there. _'Well, that was tedious! You took your sweet time responding.'_

'Jees, Sherlock, were you just going to repeat my name forever?' I complain lightly, through a blinding headache.

The room is now empty and there's no sign of my assailant. What on earth was that for?

' _No. I also tried phoning you on your phone and on the landlines of that flat and the neighbours upstairs and downstairs. The first ever picked up and the latter refused to break in to the police delimitated crime scene.'_

'Clever guy. I wouldn't come here either.'

I'm looking around, desperately, but I don't have Sherlock's eidetic memory. I can't see anything different. Nothing added, nothing taken. I rub the back of my head. Well, that was quite real, at least. What was it all for?

' _John? You are... alone, right? I heard the door bang shut after– after he... hurt you.'_

'Yeah. He's gone. No worries there.'

' _John, you said you didn't want to be there. Do you wish to... forfeit this case?'_

I finally get up, holding on to the furniture. Swaying on the spot I experiment on letting go of the soft wood cabinet and blink to refocus the spinning room.

' _John? Please answer me. Despite your unwavering belief in my gifts, I can't read your mind from all the way back in London.'_

'What? No, I... just a bit dizzy. I'm fine. Just... give me time to answer one question before moving on to the next.'

' _Is that it?'_ he sounds relieved. _'Never mind that, you don't need to think, you've got me inside your head now.'_

'Gee, thanks!'

' _As my first autocratic decision, you are to get out of there, John.'_

I shake my head before I remember he isn't really there to pick up on that.

'It's safe now, Sherlock. Lay off.'

' _John, I am presently unconvinced of that.'_

There's some crackling over the line only this is a secure satellite connection, I realise, which means that these noises are being made by my friend.

'Are _you_ okay, Sherlock?'

' _Me? Oh, fine! During your disturbing silence I have come to find out that my odious brother has confined me in 221 Baker Street. I'm locked inside and the front door has yielded against my every attempt to pickpocket the lock.'_

'Sherlock... I'm in a different country. You can't just rush to come over with a broken leg.'

' _Not today, apparently I can't'_ , he admits grudgingly. _'Where's the blowtorch and the sugar?'_ he leads on, mania still rooted in his ways. I frown, confused.

'I'm okay', I repeat again, feeling drained.

Sherlock seems to pick up on my tone of voice. _'Please keep talking to me.'_

'Why? Still telling me off, are you?'

' _John. I found your previous silence disturbing.'_

That's as much of a confession of having become scared for me as I'll ever get.

I sigh. 'Yeah. I'm sorry you got no reply.'

' _Not your fault, John. I trust your survival instincts, which means this criminal is a very cunning fiend you must never underestimate again.'_

'Sherlock...' I interrupt his guilt riddled lecture.

' _You found something.'_ A statement, not a query. He knows me that well that he can hear the presence of a clue over the headset.

'It's a rune. The character on the wall.'

' _John, I need you to carefully describe it to me in detail, then I shall—'_

'Headache, Sherlock, remember? I'll send a picture.' I interrupt. 'The rune stands for the letter M. It looks like a curvy trident.'

' _How— how do you know that, John?'_ he hesitates.

'I'm reading it out of a book. Sort of a dictionary. It says here it also stands for the word "man". Does this make any sense to you, Sherlock?'

' _Why should it?'_ he asks indolently.

He's the detective here, in about to mutter, before o realise how incongruent that statement has become in our mirrored worlds. Sherlock's limping about the flat and I'm investigating crime scenes in a weird complementary symmetry.

After that I commit my swimming head to collect samples and video all the flat from each angle the detective demands before heading off to a hotel for the night.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	138. Chapter 138

_A/N: And it's Thursday again. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.4**_

'And how are you faring, Sherlock?' I ask to the pillow I lean against, in a dusky hotel room. I've got an unopened book in my lap over the comfortable weight of a blanket. Haven't taken the headpiece off. Sherlock didn't want me to. Of course it will come off so I can sleep, but in the meantime I'm enjoying the odd trail of homely sounds of a still awake, and wondering about 221B, flatmate. Peace seeps through to my tired bones. If I closed my eyes, just for a second, in that second I could swear I was home.

' _Oh, you're still there, John!'_ he replies. Sounds pleased. I belatedly take notice that means he too didn't want to put to rest our lingering connection.

'Still working on that door?'

' _Still jammed. Mycroft's people did a good job. On the upside, it smells nice, from the caramelized sugar on the lock.'_

'Tell me again how was that supposed to aid in your daring escape?' I wonder.

' _It's ultimately down to the nitrates, not the sugars.'_

'Hence the blowtorch', I assume.

' _Of course.'_

I shift slightly in the mattress and force my eyes open again.

'Is Mrs Hudson a prisoner too?'

' _No, she's got her own back door, John.'_

'Ever thought of using it?' I try, helpfully.

' _Of course. I found she's in on it. Mrs Hudson won't ley me reach the back door. Got her laundry out on a drying rack blocking the way and there will be hell to pay if I touch her nighties, or so she says.'_

I chuckle softly.

'But why do you still want to escape? Surely you don't think you need to come here? I mean, that's why I came, to take your place.'

He takes a second to retort, without a sting to his words: _'I'm also getting bored, John. You provide regular entertainment on such evenings, I've come to notice now you're not here.'_

Ta. I blink and frown. 'How are you getting dinner? You can't get a take away delivered, Sherlock!'

He grumps away. _'I still might. Just need to lower a basket to the street through the living room window, using a rope and a pulley.'_

'Industrious', I comment.

' _However, Mycroft filled the pantry with ready made meals for me. Also he condemned the microwave. I hardly had the time to rescue my light bulb off it. He got us a new microwave and confiscated the light bulb.'_

'Good', I play my part as a responsible adult. 'Microwaves don't like light bulbs.'

 _'Neither does Mycroft, apparently.'_

'Sherlock...'

' _I get bored'_ , he reminds me.

'Sherlock...' I start, slowly, 'do you really miss me there?'

' _I believe I've told you on several occasions that I do not like to repeat myself.'_

That's a yes, then; the convoluted way. 'I liked hearing it. Like I belong there.'

' _That you most certainly do. Your chair bears the permanent indentation marks of your anatomy, the kettle's handle is still turned to the left as you always leave it being left handed, and that awful book you insist on trying to read is still on the coffee table.'_

'How do you know it's awful?'

' _You're right, I don't. I'm still on page 138.'_

I smile to an empty bedroom.

'Go to bed. Return to the door tomorrow, Sherlock, it's late.'

' _Yes, it is. Goodnight, John.'_

'Goodnight, Sherlock.'

 _ **.**_

There's a market town just south of Helmand. Where the local merchants always promise a good bargain on their goods to the peace forces. Too often the province becomes besieged and all local activity halts on the glare of an alarm bell, or at the first deflagrations of gunshots followed by piercing screams in terror or pain. The families scatter, the vendors pack up what they can before they too flee the scene. We have our weapons drawn out but we're seating ducks in an open ground and the snipers shower us with deadly attention from the hills.

A noise jolts me and I shiver. A bullet just flew past my head. Gun in hand, it's in tandem that my eyes and the aim of my service gun search the surroundings for the shooter. A fleeting motion, a speckle in the sandy landscape, and I lock my aim and pull the trigger before I even acknowledge its presence. Instinct takes over. But, as always, it's just one of many – too many.

'Doctor, here!'

I turn, cold paralyzing my tense muscles. That voice. It doesn't belong here; and this certainty, more than anything, it undoes me. Sherlock doesn't belong in this theatre of war. Sherlock is London and home.

But sure enough, he's here, bleeding too fast out of his leg into the sandy ground. I shout his name in horror, run towards his prostrate figure, desperately try to revive him, to save him, to do my most important job—

I wake up with a shout and a sense that the walls of this small room are choking me. I can breathe, I must be able to, I remind myself, as I uselessly gasp that illusive air around me. Calm down, count in and out, you're safe now. Sherlock is safe. The war is far away. Just a nightmare, just a lone echo of a time past mingled with the exhaustion of today.

I fall back on my damp pillow and feel my cheeks burn and my vision cloud. The bare and standardised hotel room provides little anchoring to a confused soldier.

Former soldier, but the battles drag on.

From a distance I could swear the fleeting sound of beautiful violin played melodies, the way my friend plays in his own insomniacs nights, as far apart as we can be in a rented flat, our torments are shared. His mind doesn't stop spinning ideas, mine wanders off freely into a living nightmare. The beautiful melody stringing us together, uniting us in safe ground.

I fall back on the damp pillow and force my thoughts to veer towards Baker Street, its soothing atmosphere and grounding effect.

A bullet to the leg, of course my mind would link my history with Sherlock's unfortunate injury. I should have seen it coming.

But Sherlock will be okay, he'll play the violin by the window and complain that London's murderers aren't creative enough. And I'll smile, and berate his words while silently wholesomely agreeing with him.

I sigh and try to sleep again, closing my eyes.

Only in the last second do I still catch a glimpse of the headset piece on the bedside table. And I smile under the cover of the darkness and of the thousand of miles distance, knowing Sherlock is still listening in on the other side, and he's playing his violin into the late night hours again.

 _ **.**_

' _John, there is no button'_ , Sherlock says dramatically over the headpiece transmission.

Err... Right. 'Of course not, you have a touch screen phone', I retort, in keeping with the madness. Immediately I hear his double take.

' _What? No, what—? John, I wish you wouldn't blurt out nonsense.'_

Same here, I think; as I drink some morning tea, breakfast is on the table. 'You said "no button"', I remind him of his last thought thread. I'm trying some jam, no smoked salmon on my toast.

' _Yes. You mentioned a button yesterday at the crime scene.'_

I cast my mind to that. 'Yes, under the sofa. Just an untidy spot, Sherlock. We have plenty of those ourselves', I state, taking a healthy bite of toast. Definitely jam today.

' _No. A clue.'_

'It was just a button', I insist, munching faster on my breakfast toast now. Sherlock doesn't usually give me enough time to finish a meal.

' _Describe it to me.'_

'It was a button. Under a sofa.'

' _John...'_

I roll my eyes to no-one in the hotel's restaurant. 'Circular, flat, golden, with a loop to thread to the garment underneath, dark thread hanging of it. Maybe the size of a 20p coin. Good enough?'

' _Material?'_

I shrug to no-one. 'How would I know? I didn't pick it up. You re not going to make it go back just to check the button?'

' _No.'_

'Good.'

' _Because the button wasn't there anymore after you woke up, and sent me detailed image of all the flat.'_

I blink.

'Oh.'

' _Yeah.'_

 _ **.**_

'And the rune that appeared on the wall? The paint was dry, I'm sure of it, yet no-one saw it before!'

' _I believe you.'_

That calm statement gives me a small shudder. Yes, I guess I expected Sherlock to put up a fight out of resentment for my state of physical freedom. I guess I was wrong. My friend never really gets petty over what really matters in a friendship.

'Someone sneaked in, smacked me on the head, took the lost button and painted the lead on the wall with quick drying paint.'

' _No. It was always there'_ , Sherlock assures me.

'Nor I, nor the police force saw it, remember?'

' _No. Because it has been painted on using thermo-sensitive paint.'_

'What?'

' _As the investigators left, they turned off the heating in the flat. The police officers in the patrol car didn't want to spend all night waiting for you – or rather me – to be done. It was meant as a little nudge to speed us along. The temperature in the flat dropped – you hardly noticed after your minor concussion – because it's cold outside in Sweden at this time of the year, and so the writing on the wall became visible.'_

'Surely it is a clue nonetheless!' I say, before realising I stopped eating my toast. Like watching an intense scene on a movie, Sherlock captures all my attention.

' _Yes, but a premeditated one. I'm more interested in the button, the clue the murderer left behind that was unintended for us, John.'_

'Brilliant.'

' _I know, isn't it?'_

I can hear the implied smirk in his voice, the one that deconstructs his smugness to a tease.

Stopping to pour me some more tea, I ask: 'What do you make of the missing button? By the way, it was the only reason I got assaulted. The letter on the wall would have been discovered sooner or later.'

' _It was meant for sooner, I'd assume; but yes, John, there's a meaning to the button. By the way, I admire your technique at portraying me to the police. And I find that somehow your action was better accepted being done by you than when I do the same.'_

'It helps that I didn't insult the police beforehand... But they did look at me weirdly.'

' _I know that look only too well... Why would the murderer risk collecting a lost button if not to keep us from identifying the killer through it? Think haut couture, John! Uniforms! Garments that can be traced back to a user, or a set of users.'_

'You're about to boast about a blog post on buttons, aren't you?'

' _Wouldn't miss my chance for the world!'_

Soon I'm scrolling down my phone over 1238 types of buttons in uniforms from the UK and the rest of the world. From train drivers to military personnel, from chefs to chambermaids, and from racetrack jockeys to highway maintenance workers. Sherlock has seen plenty, apparently.

'Okay, where is it?'

He sighs deeply. _'As usual, no credit for all my hard work! All people want to hear is who's done it, hardly all the intellectual processes that allowed me to check and reject everyone else until only one most probable solution remains.'_

I feel bad for my detective friend, recognising the truth in his words. Still...

'I promise I'll read your blog if you just tell me now.'

 _'Of course, John. How could I keep anything from you?'_ he retorts as if in the utmost sincerity.

Easily; I think, but won't say it. This is not the Sherlock I'm so used to; arrogant, cocky, superior. He's been closer as a familiar voice through my headset than often as go about our daily lives in London. As if through this medium he could allow himself to talk to me as almost an extension of his conscience, as he'd perhaps talk to me in his mind palace, or all those times he's aware I'm not actually in the room. I feel the same extra ease, the last barriers of social norms broken down. We're supporting each other as we both feel unease by the distance that has interposed between us. We're one tight unit right now, against all odds.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	139. Chapter 139

_A/N: A bit long. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.5**_

I've come to Stockholm, Sweden, to solve a puzzling case where my friend's name was invoked by some random murderer that couldn't even tell him apart from me. I took over the great detective's identity for the time being. Sherlock couldn't come with me, not yet. He got hurt at the end of our last case – it's alright, he'll recover in time... and I gunned down the killer that did this to my best friend. Sherlock has been left limping about the flat, stairs are unadvisable (when did that ever stop the genius) and his brother locked him in Baker Street quarters to force him to recovery away from fieldwork.

I'm usually the one expected to be limping about 221B, which is another instance of symmetry because I'm now taking Sherlock's place on a case. I'm the envoy, sent ahead to analyse the crime scene, wearing a headpiece microphone and audio set, feeding it all on a live show to a bored detective on a time out. There's also the phone for videocalls as backup, which we can use when I am alone in the room. In public, talking to Sherlock is regarded as talking to myself – awkward but not uncommon – and Sherlock talking to me feels more as an extension of my own consciousness than the constant intrusion it might have been between any other two flatmates.

Sherlock would have me wearing the earpiece at all times, and he's always got an extra breath left in him to berate me when I take it off, which leaves me incredulous. And a bit warm-hearted, to be honest.

My friend's concern over me only got worse when I went to the crime scene and ended up getting knocked unconscious. Sherlock heard the assailant leave and was left powerless to do anything, but to try to wake me up.

Of course I take the earpiece out to sleep; or to try to sleep. I woke up with a violent dream. After a few silent seconds I heard familiar violin strings, no words, just simple comfort.

Sherlock, you nutter, you keep taking care of me more than you do of yourself.

Two leads keep me on the case, while we wait for the autopsy report, the unblemished dead body giving us no leads to what ultimately took his life. The leads are enigmatic; a golden brass button that vanished from the crime scene and a belated marking on the wall. Today I must investigate both, like I would with Sherlock, if he could be physically present.

'That button, Sherlock, you've narrowed it down to three possibilities. An airline pilot, an old blazer jacket from the eighties, or a presenter in a burlesque theatre show.'

' _Well surmised, John'_ , my friend's faithful voice comes as once through the earpiece.

'Which shall I investigate first?'

' _The local charity shops.'_

'What?'

' _For the discontinued model of a blazer jacket that looked like the wearer was a cast member on "The Love Boat", John.'_

I don't give in so easily. 'The other possibilities are nicer. You just want to bore me to have me feel bored just like you feel.'

He sighs and I sense I went too far. 'Sorry', I mutter.

' _No offense taken. John, I believe airline pilots are too well travelled and thus a murderer pilot would be long gone from your latitude by now, and there are no near burlesque theatres according to my research. I'm afraid there are, however, second-hand and charity shops.'_

I sigh, giving in too easily. I guess I still feel guilty. Sherlock would rather be here, I know it.

I'd much rather that too.

 _ **.**_

Morning slips away in haste, and so does a big chunk of the afternoon as I make endless enquires, talk to numerous possible witnesses, but the lead is vague and the answers gathered even more.

I'm walking down the streets around the hotel when a police patrol car slows by my side.

'Doctor Watson?'

I look on. It's our police liaison in Stockholm. It's okay; he deduced early on that I wasn't the real detective, just a decoy.

'Rikspolischef Chandler, nice to see you.'

'Investigating away?'

Inwardly I hesitate to share. It's not that I don't trust the honest officer, it's more about the underwhelming task and performance since yesterday.

'Something of the sort.' I look on the street, as if I was indeed busy.

'How's the head?'

I blink and face him. He knows, and seems genuinely concerned about me. But how? 'Sherlock?' I guess.

'The real one, yes', he admits. 'He called me, grating and insulting. Let's just say I got the impression I got a better deal with you instead of the real detective.'

I groan. 'Look, Sherlock is under a lot of pressure right now. You must give him some leeway.'

'He berated me for leaving you alone in a nearly unguarded crime scene.'

'Yeah, sorry about that.'

'I actually agree. Let me offer you a coffee, make it up to you.'

I blink. Really? 'Yeah, sure, thanks.'

 _ **.**_

Chandler is sipping coffee quietly by the park stand. My own paper cup is waiting in neglect as I study the cctv footage on the police officer's tablet.

Night time hides the detail but I can see the grainy image of a tall man in jeans and a stagey type of jacket, that worms into the crime scene building with ease. His own key, quite possibly.

I look on to the other man with his coffee. Not for the first time he reminds me of Greg Lestrade. A Nordic version. Ready to bend the rules for the sake of his investigation.

'I need Sherlock to see this.'

'Already sent him. He tells me he won't give me any deduction until you see it. Hence I went by your hotel, you were out. Luckily I found you easily enough.'

'Sherlock insisted I'd be part of the case?'

'Is that surprising?' He raises an eyebrow.

'No... no...' Well, yes.

I readjust my earpiece and the connection to my suspiciously silent friend.

'Sherlock... you there?'

' _I'm always standing by you, John'_ , the familiar voice responds at once, with some warmth.

'You okay?'

' _I gather by the general lack of verbs usage that you have company, John, and hesitate to give much away in your overheard conversation with me.'_

'Well, yes. What were you doing? Where were you?'

Patiently, the Swedish inspector waits, a bit curious perhaps.

' _Mind palace. Leg's hurting. I went into hiding.'_

'I'm really sorry about that. Sherlock, it will go away soon. You're doing great.'

' _John, remember your audience! Now what did you call me for?'_

'The suspect. You saw the footage, right?'

He sighs. _'Male, late thirties or early forties.'_

I reproduce faithfully: 'The man is about forty years old.'

' _He's local, right-handed, most likely a desk worker going by the stooping of his shoulders and the stiffness on his spine as he bends towards the lock. Could be a factory worker, but office worker is more likely.'_

I repeat: 'Local office worker.'

Sherlock never stops: _'He walks stiffly and purposefully keeps to the shadows in the street, thus implying he has some characteristic and easily identifiable facial trait. In some cases this is also a behaviour mimicked by people with a speech impediment, but that is psychologically less likely as our suspect has actively sought to communicate with us through the sign on the wall.'_

'Err...' Quite a lot to repeat here. 'Maybe something on his face, but Sherlock doesn't know what?'

' _John!'_ he berates me over the earpiece.

The inspector is impressed nevertheless. 'That should get us going. Thank him for me, will you?'

I nod, all the while Sherlock is protesting, arguing about my "subpar deductions while portraying him internationally". I sip my cold coffee, tiredly.

 _ **.**_

I'm arriving at the hotel – second attempt – when someone brushes past me in the street. Something, not sure what, makes me glance over my shoulder at the man that just walked past. Then I get it; that's the jacket.

A tall, thin, forty year old man in a jacket with flamboyant golden buttons just turned the corner.

Before I know it I'm hissing my good friend's name as a minimal warning and rushing after the suspect.

' _John?'_ Sherlock's voice is small and lost over the earpiece.

'I saw him. I'm going after him.'

' _Give me your location, I'm getting you backup.'_

'No time!'

' _John, I'm not there, I can't help you!'_

I turn the corner to the dead alley behind the hotel. Rubbish bins and incoming deliveries. Other buildings share the common back space, mostly, it seems, offices.

The man I saw is nowhere to be seen now.

Where did he go?

Is he messing with me?

Am I seeing things?

' _John, report!'_

'He's gone, Sherlock.' I look around with some desperation. Much like Sherlock I feel restless by the lack of action. I'd much rather confront the murderer than be teased by cameo appearances.

He's playing me, and winning at the game.

Suddenly a quick movement on a fire escape. Just a basic circular stairwell latched on to the folds on the back of a building neighbouring the hotel. I smirk, believing the taunting criminal has made his first mistake. I take to the metal steps – every step pounding in the alley, as I rush on up – to the door on top, by the fourth storey is slowly closing shut with a spring. I start taking two steps at a time.

' _John! Report at once!'_

My friend's voice makes me jump on my race. I almost yank off the earpiece.

' _Your breathing is erratic and your heart rate—'_

I shout to the empty alley: 'You can't know my heart rate, now be silent! You're giving me away!'

He becomes quiet. Most likely, he's got his feelings hurt.

I feel bad but that's when I reach the door I saw the chased criminal use. I yank it open, fingering my empty belt loop. With a shock I remember that I couldn't bring my gun. That feeling of aloneness just intensifies.

I try to adjust my eyes to the bright corridor. There's a generic murmur of phone call conversations and ringing telephones. Maybe some call centre. Can't hear anything out of place, but my heart pounding in my ears. I watch from one side to the other in a empty, carpeted long corridor.

'Vanished. I'm sorry. I lost him', I report, still catching my breath.

Sherlock takes a second to composedly inform me: _'I'll call off the army, the paramedics and the bomb squad then.'_

I smirk, not too sure that he's not actually serious. 'Didn't call the paratroopers?'

' _Don't be silly, John. Their helicopter had nowhere to land, I was assured.'_

 _ **.**_

'Mmm...' I ponder tiredly as I arrive at my hotel room. Third time's the charm. I toss the key to the first available surface.

' _Yes, John. M is the main clue that will lead us to the murderer, after all.'_

'I didn't say anything.' Or did I? 'M for murderer, as in a signature after the fact?' I ponder.

' _Too easy'_ , Sherlock dismisses as an affront to him. I smirk.

'Who is the man with a name started by the letter M?' I briefly wonder, as I sit on the side of the bed and get those damp boots off.

' _Interesting'_ , Sherlock comments at once. _'You accepted both meanings as clues.'_

'Meaning it could be a man named Bjorn, or a woman named Mary?'

' _Among other variations, yes. We must never assume too much while deducing.'_

'That's all very nice and well in theory but soon we'll deduce it can be just about anyone, even a woman named Bjorn!'

' _Theoretically plausible.'_

'Or a woman named Mary', I whisper.

' _Molly'_ , he adds at once. _'But Molly didn't do it. She's got an alibi. She came over yesterday to give me a bag of spleens for my research.'_

'Right... Someone could be playing us. M for Moriarty.'

' _He's dead.'_

'Or so you say. This has a very personal touch, mate. Any more archenemies of yours I should know about?'

' _Mycroft...'_ Sherlock says his brother's name in utter astonishment.

'What do you mean – Mycroft? Your brother wouldn't create a fake case hundreds of miles away and... Well, he would, but he wouldn't sign it with a secret ink on the wall and... I guess that's exactly the over-the-top sort of thing he'd do to keep you engaged but... Are you saying I came all the way here because your brother wanted to keep us two from killing each other in 221B?'

' _For the record, I would not kill you if could help it, John'_ , Sherlock whispers in my ear. _'Involuntarily, on the other hand—'_

The two Holmes brothers love to mess with me. I groan. In their own very personal fashion, it's quite endearing. Almost even a form of caring.

Mycroft did all the messing with this time, I presume. He must have been trying to look after his baby brother by interfering with a police investigation hundreds of miles away from London, goading Sherlock in by use of a killer that wouldn't tell Sherlock apart from a lookalike, and also preserving our friendship in the process by giving Sherlock and I some breathing space.

I'm almost disappointed.

Okay, I'm really disappointed. Not that the case is abruptly over, or never has been, but because I think I took a liking to being Sherlock Bloody Brilliant Holmes for a while. Sure there were plenty of weird looks and false assumptions but to be in my friend's shadow for a while, to be a copy of his beautiful brilliancy; it was something I really enjoyed.

'So I guess I can finally go home now. Stop looking for suspects in uniforms with paintbrushes hidden away in a pocket?' I summarise.

' _If you'll kindly pack your bags, John, I'll arrange for your plane ticket to be ready for collection at the airport in... three hours.'_

I nod, tiredly, almost forgetting Sherlock can't guess that much. But he really doesn't wait for acquiescence on his plan. He wants his flatmate back at Baker Street. I hope Mrs Hudson has got her nighties put away and the back door clear, because the front door is bound to be caramelized shut above all else Mycroft did to it.

'I'll just get a shower and maybe get you some souvenir from the hotel gift store, Sherlock. Plenty of time.'

I take off the earpiece, Sherlock is protesting over the line about some thing or other. Mycroft most likely.

 _ **.**_

A shower always gets me in a better mood. I slip on a comfortable sweater and take the wet towel from my hair to toss it away. It falls on the hotel room floor, and I don't have the heart to leave it there. I pick it up, fold it and put it on the radiator. I grab my wristwatch on my way back. Plenty of time left.

I sneak the earplug back on next. Immediately my friend's voice is back, passionately.

' _Where were you?'_ Sherlock hisses angrily through the earpiece.

'Taking a shower', I answer bewildered because it seems so odd that my friend is so angry over a small absence from the line. 'I told you so.'

' _I didn't listen.'_ He's still angry, as if somehow him not listening was my fault, I should have accounted for his worry when he got no reply.

'Well, I keep telling you, you need to listen!'

He huffs loudly. _'I'm not listening, John!'_

Suddenly the hotel room's telephone rings. I zoom in on the thing with some distrust. Doesn't abode for good things, for who even knows me staying at this hotel?

I pull up the receiver but before I can say a word, the plug in my ear whirls a shrilling sound of electronic interference; too many devices in close proximity. The receptor falls from my hand and I yank out the earplug, satellite connection be damned; I could swear my very brain matter is in pain. I curl on myself for a couple of seconds as I try to steady myself. This isn't normal. What was that sound? Vaguely I can hear my name insistently called out through the live feed, underlined with concern. I try to speak back, I really do, but my knees buckle before I can help it. I fall to the floor but don't remember reaching the bracing solid surface.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	140. Chapter 140

_A/N: Not all those who wander are lost. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.6**_

'Where am I? Who are you?'

I came back with a bad migraine, in a new setting. A dark, dingy room. Small and bare, stripped from most of the basics apart from a battered table and a couple of metal chairs. I'm tied with my hands behind my back to one of the chairs. The other is empty, but I can sense a shadow by the corner of the room, standing up. He – I think the shape is of a man, an adult of undetermined age, thin built and in bland clothes – seems to have an ear to the only door that keeps us in the room. More like a janitor's closet, going by size and the lack of windows in here.

This is hardly a dignified place to hold who you believe to be Sherlock Holmes.

The standing figure replies quietly, in a masculine voice: 'Welcome back, Mr Holmes. I had a difficult time catching you alone. Your connections with the police, your companion by use of a headset... Tell me, why wouldn't doctor Watson come too?'

I squint. He still can't tell us apart.

I'll keep up the charade.

'John's hurt. He can't travel. I had to leave him behind in London.'

The man nods to himself, before turning.

'It is a shame, perhaps', he starts, 'As he's the real storyteller. But I'd like you to see you try telling me that story.'

I gulp. Is he messing with me? Why won't he turn?

'We get hurt a lot. It becomes old after a while. He got shot. On the leg. A case gone wrong. Cases go wrong sometimes.'

'And he's expendable that way? You just leave him behind?'

I look down on the battered table. 'Wasn't easy, but it was for his own good.'

'I see.'

'Why are you so interested in him? Doctor Watson, I mean?' I mustn't say Sherlock's name, I mustn't make a mistake that would cost my cover.

He turns at last. A deep scar barely visible across his face, in the dusky room. It trails from his chin to the forehead on one side of his face. Possible damage to the eye and a slight sagging of the cheek muscles on that side as well. He chose the dusk to hide his scar.

'I'm not interested. My only concern right now is you, Sherlock Holmes', he answers coldly.

I take a deep breath and comment lazily: 'You should know a normal invitation by the post would have got me here just as easily. And the ropes tying me really are not my thing either. We could talk, I wouldn't mind, but I'll need to be untied first.'

He smiles without sentiment, his scarred face unnaturally still on one side, giving his smile a twist like a grotesque smirk.

John, he's engaged, keep talking rubbish.

'And you should remember the police knows I'm in Stockholm.'

'It's a big city. They would take longer to find you than I would of disposing of the body. But hush now, I don't mean to kill you, Mr Holmes.'

'Good to know', I mutter.

'I mean for you to deduce me.'

I blink. This time I'm speechless.

'You can have your friend back on speaker if it helps.' And with that he throws Mycroft's expensive headpiece negligently on the table. I watch it slide a few inches before it stops at what would normally be within my reach. Except I'm still tied to a chair.

Is it still working? Is Sherlock still listening in? Can he feed me the likes of Sherlock Holmes to appease a madman?

I look up to the villain in full blown surprise.

'Go on, deduce me', he dares. 'I've come to a lot of bother to arrange this.'

'Hmm.' Still the earpiece is unreachable on the table. 'You are an educated man, going by your knowledge of the English language and the articulation of your ideas.' Stall, John, stall. 'You like mysteries, enigmas, riddles; but you are ordinarily more of a loner. Hence the whole tying me up to have someone to chat too.'

He huffs, amused it would seem. Trailing silent steps around the room, he comes past the back of my chair when I feel the ropes loosen suddenly as if cut off. I'm about to leap up and pounce on him and teach him what a soldier can do – when I feel the cold steel blade of a knife against my throat, pressuring against the skin.

Okay, not fighting, then.

In as calm gestures as I can I reach for the earpiece and plug it on my ear. I clear my throat.

' _I'm here, John'_ , the familiar voice whispers softly. _'I heard everything.'_

Good, I think back; as if he could hear my thoughts. Start deducing, pretty please?

' _His voice. Hints of other Germanic origin languages. A bit of Norwegian too. Well travelled, possibly family connections.'_

'You have family abroad in Norway, and spent some time with them. I can hear it on the rounding of vowels and the intonation of certain key words', I lie blatantly, to sell to my nemesis the brilliant Sherlock Holmes.

He tilts his head, the knife is still snug against my skin.

'Go on.'

I gasp. Sherlock's voice comes loyally to my aid. _'Don't overstretch my deductions, John! You're taking a risk! Now tell him his crime scene was beautiful, perfect – as the setting of a book. Just say it, John!'_

'Your crime scene was as the setting of a book', I parrot stiffly.

The knife inches down a millimetre or two. Sherlock's onto something here.

'You know.'

'Yes.' I lie without needing Sherlock to tell me to.

'Naturally you've heard of me too.'

'Naturally.' Another lie. What does this mean? I can vaguely hear Sherlock taping on his phone, desperately searching the internet knowledge for a hint.

'When did you find out?'

Silence over the headpiece. But I have full faith Sherlock will feed me the answer, so I argue meanwhile: 'I suspected so at the crime scene, but had no evidence yet.'

'Brilliant.'

Yeah. What am I saying, though? Sherlock needs to hurry up.

'My turn now. Why am I here?'

The knife slides back against my neck vein, I can feel it pulsating against the cold heartless metal.

'To help me end it.'

I gulp. Sherlock groans, back in London. He's got nothing yet.

'End it?' I repeat to make him talk.

'I must get rid of the detective. He's taking over my life.'

I frown. Then I close my eyes. I think I got it. This guy's a writer. He created a detective based on Sherlock Holmes and now wants rid of it. For that, he believes he first must rid the world of the real Sherlock Holmes, so his own character might stop being on demand.

Of course that would never happen. Sherlock Holmes will live forever, in literature and in life. His own detective character is a different matter, now that the writer has blurred the lines and become a criminal in real life. And what for? To bait Sherlock Holmes to come over to Stockholm.

'You can't get rid of Sherlock Holmes', I point out with a smirk. No one can, unless he wants to.

'I'm holding a knife.'

Right. He thinks I'm Sherlock.

'So you are. But what threat does a knife pose to a legend?'

'You're not deducing me now. Just guessing.'

' _John, please, I've only got access to his voice.'_ The real detective pleads soberly. _'Let me know something about his looks, his smells, the small tells!'_

Hang in there, mate. 'Your scar. It's recent.' The blade presses in deeper against my clammy skin, the first drizzled of blood trickle due my neck, making my skin tingle. 'You didn't inflict that on yourself, it's obvious by the angle that you were attacked. Two months ago?'

'Yes', he whispers harshly, the knife stays still. I guess medical expertise counts as deductions too.

'You're a writer. I'm assuming a so-called fan did this to you.'

'Yes. Now I've truly become my character.'

I obviously don't read enough books. I'll blame it on Sherlock, always distracting me with cases and hints of dangerous adventures.

'So why do you need to talk to me before finishing me off? Are you even wanting to finish me off?' I ask, truly confused.

'Can't you get it? My character is influenced by the great Sherlock Holmes! Now I'm the character, I'm Sigerson, and I'm not a great detective! Either I learn to be you or I must end it all!'

My dry gulp drops like a stone. No one is like Sherlock, I couldn't teach you, and neither could he!

'Let me tell you; we all get days like that, when we underestimate ourselves, but your crime scene? That was a superb crime scene.' I'm bluffing now. I know back in London Sherlock will be catching on quickly enough. That crime scene; it's got to be on this mad author's best selling book.

The thermo-sensitive paint now makes more sense. Who would leave such a convoluted clue behind if not a writer? A writer, like any other creative person's world, is always just a tad over-the-top. Take it from me, murder is usually straightforward and gruesome, basic in its nature. Convoluted plots are rarity, and that depresses Sherlock to no end.

'My best book, Holmes', he agrees dreamily. 'Mord Serveras Kallt, Murder is served cold.'

'The police closed the windows, delaying the notice of the rune on the wall, but yes, brilliant, of course.'

He shrugs, I sense. 'The police never acts like in murder novels.'

'Look', I try to reason again, 'you've been through a rough time. Maybe it's shock that makes you cut away from your novels and your detective Sigerson. You don't have to kill him, or me. You can go back to writing your books.'

He laughs coldly behind me ear. 'There's no going back now, Holmes. I killed a man to set up my final chapter. No one else has figured out how I've done it, not yet, maybe not ever.'

I gulp drily, feeling that blade caressing my skin as the lump remains stuck in my throat.

Sherlock gasps. Instinctively I know he's onto something. Sherlock always works better under pressure.

'Sherlock Holmes knows how the murder was accomplished, and deduced you as the murderer. A real life detective has beat you and your writing fantasy.'

' _John, don't antagonize him when he's got a knife to your throat.'_

Little does Sherlock knows that the murderer is grabbing me by my hair and shaking my head violently. The earpiece falls out, beyond my control, hitting the floorboards with an innocent small noise. The knife's blade digs in on my skin, just superficially yet.

I frown, but carry on. 'Maybe this is the ending of Sigerson. Sherlock Holmes has beaten him.'

How did Sherlock know of the knife? My heart lights up with some last hint of hope, at that last proof of omniscience from my great friend.

'You're bluffing, Mr Holmes.'

Yes, I am. But I'm good at that. Takes some faith.

'Don't need to. I was at the crime scene, remember? I know you were there. I know you probably wore earplugs, otherwise the high pitch, high frequency sound would have caused internal brain bleeding on you as well.'

'You know', he seems impressed.

'I'm also a medical expert of sorts, it's not just doctor Watson. I know the human body is not unbreakable... That sound, when I picked up the hotel phone... I was to be the next victim. At that time you wanted to kill me, kill Sigerson. I fell unconscious. That's when you plotted our nice little chat.'

'I used that high frequency sound to kill my neighbour and get you here in Stockholm.'

'You would have succeeded, too. But I foolishly raised the receiver to my left ear, where I had my earpiece. There was some sort of electromagnetic interference and I dropped it before getting the full brunt of the deadly shrill sound. I passed out, but it didn't kill me. My connection to my partner saved me.'

The murderer's steel knife has warmed by close contact with my neck. He doesn't give in an inch.

'I guess you're as clever as you're reputed', he finally comments.

Hey, it was John Watson's deduction! I don't bother setting the record straight, though. Not really the right time or place.

It never is.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	141. Chapter 141

_A/N: Last but not least. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.7**_

 _The murderer's steel knife has warmed by close contact with my neck. He doesn't give in an inch._

 _'I guess you're as clever as you're reputed', he finally comments._

 _Hey, it was John Watson's deduction! I don't bother setting the record straight, though. Not really the right time or place._

 _It never is._

 ** _._**

A knock on the door derails the deadly imminent attack. From the corridor an indolent voice trails on:

'I believe you are holding doctor Watson in there, and I've come here to retrieve him for my brother.'

Mycroft?

The only reason Mycroft gets is a few seconds of stunned silence from our side of the door because the murderer is confused. He still believes I'm Sherlock Holmes, after all.

Of course a self-respecting kidnapper won't reply "oh, I beg your pardon, you're wrong about the identity of my kidnaped victim, it's not doctor Watson's throat I'm about to cut, kindly hurry along now".

Still... 'Mycroft?'

So, I guess this is not product of the Holmesian master plan after all. Or it's a really bad spin-off.

The knocks on the door, as if made by the wooden handle of an umbrella, repeat themselves. No extra hurry, just a gentlemanly insistence.

Through the earpiece Sherlock's racket stops entirely. He needs to shout to get himself heard, but that doesn't seem to bother him. _'Is he there yet? My brother's ever so lazy.'_

Sherlock has manipulated his brother to come to the spotlight, in order to keep me safe. And this was a planned effort of hours ago, given the distance from London to Stockholm. Sherlock forced Mycroft to come, likely just as soon as I chased this guy down an alley alone. The detective was not about to take any chances from my solitary heroics.

It was a long day though, and here I am now.

The murderer backs off slightly and I'm finally allowed a deeper breath. I run my fingertips through my bruised neck to assess the damage at the same time I pick up the earpiece from the floor and replace it in my ear.

Meanwhile the unstable criminal is maniacally pacing by the door. I'll jump him if I have to, but right now he's got no self-preservation instinct left, he's far too dangerous, too chaotic, and I don't need to open hostilities just yet.

'I thought Mycroft had orchestrated all this and then the murderer had gone rogue on the plan! You know, to get us two from killing each other?' I remind Sherlock.

He hums questioningly, as if the thought had never occurred to him.

' _I wouldn't put past my brother to pledge strategic allegiance to a murderer, but – no – Mycroft assured me he wouldn't have put you in harm's way, not even to entertain me. His goal, after all, was to distract me from forced enclosure, not to make me vividly aware of my current restrictions.'_

The writer turned murderer is still coming to grips with my identity. He comes closer, angrily, unstable. He seems to have made the maths to the family connections. He knows now I'm a pale copy of Sherlock, I'm just plain John.

One more step, and I'll confess I'm about to cringe, and suddenly he lets himself fall on the other chair, next to me. 'But you...' He seems incredulous. 'You're just a sidekick.'

I blink. Credit where it's due, I've got my own strengths, you know...

'No, I'm not Sherlock Holmes. I'm just his blogger', I admit.

'You're a writer like me.'

I nod. That's true. Except I'm a narrator of true events, a biographer of sorts; and he's a murder manufacturer that has crossed the line.

Yet another knock on the door. 'Today, if you wouldn't mind!' Mycroft insists. 'Before the PM changes her mind again and I'm heading back to number 10...'

The madman looks over his shoulder towards the door.

'Who is he?' he asks, intrigued.

'Sherlock's brother', I dismiss. Through the earpiece, Sherlock hisses:

' _John, please. Follow the lead. Just drop it, John.'_

I really don't follow what the Holmes brothers are on about. The murderer is oblivious to all this, of course. He notices, of Mycroft:

'He sounds... interesting. I wonder if he'll let me interview him. Just the essentials, he'd make a great lead character in a book.'

I blink. The murderer is transferring his obsession. Mycroft over Sherlock. Completely dismissing me, but I won't complain. Had enough attention already.

One last act of protection from the big brother, accepting the spotlight – and a moderately safe one too, now that the murderous writer is about to get jailed. Yes, this could work. Plenty of free time in prison, to write a book. The older Holmes will even secretly enjoy the adulation.

'Mycroft loves talking about himself, really. You should open the door.'

'As he called the police on me?'

And the secret services of two, if not more, nations, yeah, along with the army and navy. Rikspolischef Chandler will take the credits even if he's the last one to arrive, and that's alright, I liked his life-tired realism as an honest trait for a policeman.

'Yes, I think so...' I try to sound ambiguous.

He gets up with some new determination. 'Then I must hurry. There's not a lot of time.'

The murderer gets up and opens the door to my rescuer by proxy.

That easy, huh?

 _ **.**_

Mycroft Holmes is flying home on a luxurious private jet. I've been offered a ride as an afterthought. The humming of the airplane's engines cut the silence between us for most of the travel high above land and sea, until I ask aloud:

'So what will he name his character based on you, Mycroft?'

The older Holmes grimaces in depreciation. 'Myron. He told me he's naming his hero Myron. He says no one would find credible a character named Mycroft.'

I smile to the frosted airplane window. I'm just plain John. Such problems won't cause me to lose sleep.

'This time he knows what his inspiration actually looks like.'

'Hardly, John. You may not have noticed this, even as a general practitioner of the medical arts, but he has a genetically inherited difficulty to map out people's faces. It's quite remarkable as an academic study. I sit here and look over a pale skin face, dark blue eyes, strong nose and a frank expression. He saw a blurred outline of a human face. If we had swapped seats when he was turned in that store room, I think I would have literally taken you place, John.'

'That would have been very generous of you, Mycroft. But seriously? Facial agnosia? You're deducing this because he couldn't tell me apart from your brother, and you don't want Sherlock to feel hurt. Maybe I was just more like he imagined his Sigerson character.'

The older Holmes ponders that idea quietly. 'I see... It's not uncommon for the main character of a story to be excessively ordinary in aspect, so that even the blandest reader can identify with him, I suppose.'

I give my host one very dark look.

'John', he proceeds, very much in the same tone of his brother, 'you are trying to understand a murderer. Perhaps you just aren't equipped to do so. There's absolutely no shame in that.'

'He's also a human being.'

'So was his victim. And I don't mean the first ones... John, are you sure you are alright? My brother would be very cross with me if I returned you in some substandard condition, after all', he rolls his eyes dramatically.

I smirk at his warped words of concern. 'I'm alright', I confirm. 'And how's old Sherlock?'

'Successfully distracted', Mycroft grins through his jest. 'But he is an endless pain to put up with. I believe it's time for your return, doctor. I honestly don't know how you manage.'

I turn my soft smile to the cloudy skies outside the cold window pane.

'I don't know, it's just natural.'

 _ **.**_

'Sherlock? I'm home!'

I call out to my missing friend as soon as I get up those seventeen steps to 221B. The living room is deserted of the familiar detective, and chaos has established deep roots in the usual clutter. I pick up a sock faintly glowing blue, from the top of the tall lamp fitted with the ultraviolet light bulb, without bothering to ask myself what went on. _Sherlock was bored_ is always the convenient excuse.

'Sherlock – are you home?'

Still no answer. Worried now, I take some tentative steps across the living room, half-expecting a bedridden dejected detective hidden away in the flat.

'Sherlock?'

As I carefully choose my path through a sea of maps, books and manuscripts littering the carpet, suddenly there's a loud bang. I duck for cover at once, heart pounding and dry mouth. That's when I feel it. Falling on my neck and over my hands as they cover my head: the soft brush of confetti. Plenty of it too. I uncurl myself and it keeps snowing on me, and the messy living room.

'Welcome, John.'

I turn at the familiar voice. The detective, looking a bit thinner but bearing an honest smirk, sits on the steps to my room upstairs, and he's been watching me silently all along.

Sherlock, what the hell—?

'Thanks, mate', I say a loud instead. 'I missed you.'

 _ **.**_

'I've learned it's tough being Sherlock Holmes', I point out as I hand my friend a cuppa. I've helped him to his armchair and accepted 221B's temporary chaos as homely.

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. 'I could have told you that.'

'I mean it. The deductions? They are too quick when we hear them, mate, but to talk at the speed your mind spills them is nothing short of torture.'

Sherlock chuckles. 'I've had years of practise', he says modestly.

'I'm sorry I didn't get to repeat it all just like you would have said them. I edited your deductions quite a bit. Short-changed you on your deserved glory.'

'I found I wasn't too bothered. I had enough audience, John.' In front of him I raise an eyebrow. 'My faithful biographer heard me and will report adequately. History will remember the full thing, I trust.'

I chuckle too. 'Right. You are just happy you had a chance to impress me as usual.'

'My best and most faithful audience yet', he seems to agree, inhaling deeply the scent of tea from his mug, before raising those piercing green-grey eyes to me.

' _Welcome home, John.'_

 _ **.**_


	142. Chapter 142

_A/N: Fair warning – mentions of Christmas in this pl_ _otline. If you are determined not to enjoy Christmas (in the broad sense of get together because it's winter, the days are dull and short, and there's a bunch of silly traditions associated, and twinkling fairy lights) then you might want to avoid these ones. In all honesty, it's going to be a difficult time for me, so if that's also your case, know that you are not alone. I've decided to have the best time I can, that's all. So let's see how this goes. -csf_

* * *

 _ **One.**_

Back ramrod straight, an errant rebellious curl defiantly overshadowing his elfish eyes, Sherlock Holmes pulls back the bow's string with an elegant feathery arrow loosely held between his fingertips.

'You're going to miss', I quip in, turning the page on my newspaper, hardly looking up from my usual seat at the armchair.

Sherlock's concentration is shattered and he glances at me, looking off-put for a second, that is until he catches the humour in my eyes. He points the bow and arrow at me instead. 'I never miss.'

'I'm your faithful biographer; I created that rumour. I can destroy it.'

He shrugs petulantly. 'Fine. Tell your fans I missed the target.' He turns the weapon away. 'Rare exception.'

'Rare.' I chuckle.

He points the arrow at the yellow face on the wallpaper, and releases it with a sharp twang of string. The arrow gets embedded deep in the wall, right on the undrawn nose, and the feathered tail still vibrates a while longer.

'See, John?'

'Wasn't looking', I mess with him, turning another page on the newspaper.

'John?'

Something in his voice immediately draws my gaze upwards as the strong pull of a magnet. His posture has changed, his bow is held loosely, and he leans closer to the living room window, peering out.

'What is it?'

'Tell your fans...'

' _Our_ fans', I correct. _Mostly his, anyway._

'...I miss my target only slightly more than you.'

I smirk. _Bad strategy, mate._

'They think I can't do this', I remind my friend by crunching up a page of newspaper to a ball and tossing it yonder over the back of the armchair, without turning. Two seconds later, I can hear it land on the rubbish bin in the kitchen.

'You missed the fridge', Sherlock comments, unfazed. I give him a nasty look.

Sherlock is already squinting at something he's seeing going on, down on the street.

'What is it?' I break first, putting away the newspaper I haven't been reading much of, anyway.

Sherlock turns to me with a genuine troubled look in his eyes, before he masks his expression to pleasant neutrality and smiles on a blank face. 'A client, John. An interesting one, for once.'

I fear the worst already. _Interesting client?_

And, to deepen my fears, Sherlock is actually heading downstairs to open the door to the so-called client, before they even ring the bell.

I walk steadily to the window and look down. The only non-bustling about person who hesitates by Baker Street's front doors, porches and entrances is an old man. Bummed clothes, overgrown grey hair, shaggy beard, unsteady movements.

I wonder what Sherlock saw in him. The old man doesn't seem to be looking for 221B at all. It's Sherlock who's decided he's to be our new client.

 _ **.**_

I'm carrying a tray of warm tea and some nibbles to the living room. The old man Sherlock has kidnapped off the street is finding my armchair comfortable (he must be very kind hearted, not to grumble at a couple of broken springs mischievously lurking in the padding) and the warm fire in the hearth is also appreciated, as his clothes are still damp from the drizzled rain of earlier today. The detective is sat princely on his own leather and steel armchair, immobile as he watches the old man like a hawk its prey.

I lay down the tray on a side table and pick up the tea pot.

'That's John's armchair.'

I clear my throat. 'That's alright, Sherlock. Perfectly alright.'

'It's a fact.'

'Doesn't have my name on it.'

Sherlock tilts his head. 'You're being kind. Is it because he's old or because he's dying?'

A tea cup slips off my hand, dropping on the saucer noisily. The socially impaired genius is genuinely curious, in all probability. I take a deep breath and glance at the old man. As a medical professional, I'm challenged to find what clues the detective discerned in him first; who, by the way, has not challenged age or heath status.

'Heart, I'm afraid', the old man tells me at once, and I blush. Great, now _I'm_ acting like a jerk!

'Sorry, I—'

'No need to apologise, John.'

'You know my name?' I'm surprised.

'Your friend mentioned it.'

'Oh, I see. Sugar, or milk?'

'Milk, if you please. And skip the tea altogether.'

I fill a new cup with milk and hand it to our guest with unusual habits. He takes it eagerly, along with the biscuits. I give Sherlock some tea (with sugar), and finally make my own, to the flow of Sherlock's purred deductions:

'You came from afar, specifically to Baker Street, but not to come to us. You weren't looking for a detective. Your clothes don't fit a man trying to impress strangers with his story for help. You wear old but comfortable clothes. Much worn, reliable and faded. But you were not their first owner. Take the shoes, for instance. The first wearer only had them for a couple of weeks and had high arches. He also had bunions so he got rid of them before they were too worn out. Donated to a friend in need or to charity. You came alone, so it's unlikely you've got a friend to back you up with a still sturdy, good quality pair of shoes. Charity, then. Such as your sweater. Tiny marks on the cuffs from ash burns from cigarettes. You clearly don't smoke, nasty habit, expensive, but a good distraction. You are not looking for distraction, you are looking for something in your past. Someone you lost, or someone you didn't know you had. To make amends, to say goodbye or another such trivial emotion.'

'Sherlock...'

'But that's not why you are fascinating. You are fascinating because you don't know who you are looking for. You have lost your memory. You didn't go to charity because you are out and down on your luck, you just don't know who you are or where you come from. You are looking for your life. I will help you find it. John will blog about it. Will you be our client?'

I look on over from Sherlock to the old man. He's as stunned as I am. Finally he nods shortly, and munches in some more biscuits, two at a time.

'Loved to. Can't pay you, though. Not with money. As you pointed out, I currently have no identity, no money and no home. Perhaps I can help do something about the place. I have a feeling I'm good at working with my hands.'

Sherlock rolls his eyes - 'It's evident from the calluses in your dominant hand' - and I eagerly accept for both of us; allowing the old man to feel he's giving something back underlines his dignity, I can sense that's important to him.

'Have you tried the police?' I ask, based on good common sense.

'Haven't committed a crime, I'm not listed as a missing person, have no documents with me... somewhere life goes on without me, I suppose.'

'You must have someone...' I say, but even as I say it I know it's not always so. He's old, might not have living relatives anymore, no wife or kids. But he must have friends, at least...

'John!'

I snap back to the moment, Sherlock is eyeing me only too intently. 'More tea?', he drawls the request lazily as he gets my attention.

'Sure', I mutter. To the client, I ask: 'When did you first realise you couldn't tell who you were?'

Sherlock corrects: 'Who he is.'

 _Don't know about that._ Are you still the same person you ever were if you are stripped of your experiences and memories?

The old man seems interested in the silent exchange of gazes in front of him, answering nevertheless:

'A few days ago. Woke up in jail, if you must know. I had been taken in because someone thought I was drunk, asleep in the park. I don't think I was, but I cannot tell how I got to pass out in the park either.'

Sherlock shrugs as if it could happen to anyone, and I'm about to mention his medication's side effects, as the old man notices suddenly:

'You have no Christmas decorations. Don't you enjoy Christmas?'

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'That's John's thing. He's always been the one to insist on Christmas.'

I ignore the fake antics. 'Yeah, haven't gone round to it, yet.'

Sherlock zooms in on the client, just then: 'Why come to this part of town, then? Who were you looking for?'

 _It's not a party trick, Sherlock_ ; I frown heavily at my friend. You won't catch him off-guard, telling you his name and address.

The old man answers thoughtfully. 'I felt I was needed around here. Couldn't tell you why... Would you have more milk and biscuits?'

Something in me breaks and I find myself volunteering: 'I have dinner too, and you can spend the night here. You're not going back out there without a home in the cold winter. You can stay with us. Sherlock is a genius. He'll find a way to get you home.'

'John?'

This time my name came across feeble and surprised. The detective seems to think this is a tall order. One lost old man in huge London? Perhaps it is. But I know a thing or two about not having a home to return to. I may not be able to fix all the wrongs in London, but I can start one at a time.

Christmas spirit, that's what it is.

Sherlock nods, as much to me and the client as perhaps to himself. He's taken the case long ago, anyway. Picked him right off the street outside Baker Street.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	143. Chapter 143

_A/N: It's going its own ways, this one._ -csf

* * *

 _ **Two.**_

'It's very convenient, John', the detective comments suddenly, as if he were in the middle of a conversation with me and suddenly had turned up the volume to "audible".

'Convenient?' I repeat.

'Housing our client upstairs, in your room.'

Right. We've kidnapped an old man off the streets, who assures us he doesn't know who he is or what he's looking for. If the great detective has a task at hand it's to return the old man's identity and memory.

'He's an old man, worn out and lost. He should have a bed. I will be perfectly fine in the long sofa.'

'I expect so, your feet hardly touch one armrest when your head is on the other one... Is it because you are kind, John?'

I frown. _What?_

Sherlock insists: 'He could be a coldblooded murderer.' Then he checks himself. 'If we were only that lucky!'

'You didn't deduce that on him, though.'

'I'm not infallible, John. There is always hope!'

I smile softly. 'You're just upset he keeps taking my furniture. My armchair, my bed... I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock.'

'What's that?' he changes the subject abruptly.

I look down on my hand. 'A Christmas bauble.'

'What's that for?' My friend asks depreciatively, as he walks away to the kitchen. I blink, surely he's not that oblivious.

'It's a superfluous trinket to evoke joy, Sherlock!' I mock his opinions on baubles.

'Oh.' Sherlock stealthily grabs a hot ginger biscuit right out of the oven where Mrs Hudson left them baking, before she returns.

I'm smiling as I soften my previous answer. 'It's a Christmas bauble. As far as I know it serves no actual purpose, Sherlock.'

'I liked your first answer best.'

I'm aware that Sherlock has seen plenty of Christmases before, with and without his flatmate. Yet he always acts as if seasonal decor has no intellectual justification or place in 221B. But he'll allow it anyway. The funny thing is, however much he questions my spirits, he never refused to indulge on the flat's decorations before. If anything, he puzzled about what possessed me to repeat putting up the same lights, wreaths, and shiny things. On occasion he has suggested new places or reminded me of how I've done it in the past, and he always helped me spread the lights on the top of the fireplace's mirror, being taller than me.

This year he is more reticent. I am not aware why.

I'm still secretly convinced that he's as much into Christmas as I am.

'One box of hideous decor should be enough, John.'

I smirk. 'What? And keep the other stuff stashed away? It wouldn't be Christmas!'

I can hear the audible gulp he takes, and finally the penny drops.

'Sherlock, what have you done to my Christmas decorations? Why will I not find them? Is this box all that is left?'

Too many questions at once, he seems to imply – but won't dare to challenge me just yet. I'm not just his angry flatmate. I'm disappointed.

I bet they were sacrificed for Science.

'Let me guess, it seemed like a perfect idea at the time?'

He nods, guiltily.

I drop tonelessly in my armchair. He follows swiftly on his, tense and wiry.

'Baubles make excellent vessels for smoke bombs. If you fill two with these different chemicals when the splatter mixes on the pavement it creates the most perfect—'

'Was I at work?' I guess.

'Yes. And Baker Street got cordoned off but never evacuated. I distracted you for a week so you didn't catch up with the news.'

'Mrs Hudson didn't tell me about it.'

'Mrs Hudson was tossing the first chemical bauble. She is a great landlady but has little aim. As for me, I'm a great tosser.'

I groan and chuckle, all in one. I hate being the only grown up in the Baker Street quarters.

This delicate time is the exact one when our guest and client comes down the stairs to meet us, so I don't get to ask what happened to the other decorations. We still don't know what to call the lost old man who smiles at the first outward signs of Christmas. It's a soft, genuine, true smile; the first true smile he gives the world since we've met, and I find that I enjoy that feeling of giving joy to someone in need.

Immediately my disappointment with Sherlock melts off.

'Good evening!'

Sherlock snaps: 'You're wearing John's dressing gown. Too be honest, I don't know how it fits you.'

The good humoured old man notices: 'A bit short on the sleeves but that's perfectly alright. Your friend is very generous, even to strangers.'

Sherlock doesn't defy that comment and strangely drops the pursuit. 'We'll find you the way back to your life; just will not promise you'll like it. Although, judging by the wrinkles around your eyes, you have had a good life.' The detective notices we're both staring at him. 'You smiled a lot. You could be a television presenter, but John would have recognised you.'

I find myself seated on my armchair, holding a shiny bauble in my hand. A flash of memory from the first time I hanged up the set of baubles, that first Christmas after Afghanistan, comes to mind, as if I could have held that feeling of belonging again in small colourful trinkets like this only surviving one.

It survived because it was in the wrong box. Not it's time to shatter in the battle, I suppose.

Reverentially, I add it to the eclectic mix on the mantel. It will do for now.

Must remember to get more baubles, maybe some extra too – earmarked for Sherlock's science madness.

Getting up from my seat I volunteer my armchair to the old man, as I make sure to add an extra log in the fire to make him as comfortable as I can.

 _ **.**_

I'm getting some food going in the stove, the kitchen glass doors are slid shut and the detective and client are getting better acquainted by the lit fireplace.

' _You lived in a cold climate, often outdoors. Further north, I expect. You kept active, so given your age you are likely a pensioner, but not fully retired, as you keep a job, or volunteer often.'_

' _And how old am I?'_ the stranger asks the detective.

' _I don't know. You are not a tree, can't count the rings.'_

The old man chuckles.

' _That's true, I suppose. And my heart condition?'_

' _Hypertension signs visible in your skin tone, then there's your shortness of breath when you stand for long or climb stairs, and the bottle of pills in your pocket told me that.'_

' _I checked the label, by the way. No name on the prescription.'_

' _I figured as much. Doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to tell you your name if it's written into your belongings... How much do you have left?'_ there's genuine concern in Sherlock's deep voice now.

' _A few days' supply.'_

' _John can get you more.'_

' _Doctor John will insist on a full medical check up. I don't think I want that.'_

' _John will do exactly as I tell him.'_ Sherlock's voice comes across sharp.

' _Will he? Your friend doesn't look very happy, Mr Holmes. Have you not noticed?'_

' _He's happy. It's Christmas. He likes Christmas.'_

' _He seems a bit withdrawn at times. Melancholic too. Surely you have noticed.'_

' _He's just unhappy I blew up his baubles. He still hasn't a clue what happened to the rest.'_

' _Are you being a good friend, Mr Holmes, or a naughty one?'_

' _My, aren't you Father Christmas?'_

' _Is that your professional opinion? Is that who I am?'_

' _What? No! You're doing that on purpose! John, tell him to stop.'_

' _John is in the kitchen.'_

' _He should be here.'_

' _Mr Holmes... Sherlock. Sometimes the people who make Christmas the biggest thing about town are the ones who need it the most. But John is missing the point. Christmas is not about having the place all made up, or the typical foods. John has all the gifts wrapped, all the cards written and his list of chores, as if that was what Christmas is all about. He has not forgotten what it is truly about. He just finds it painful to remember, at times, and he rather be hurt by the lack of baubles. Perhaps it's time to get new baubles, if you know what I mean?'_

' _Later. We've got a case now. You are a terrible client. I should have picked the cabbie driver behind you on the street. You keep distracting me. John, tell him to stop.'_

' _John is still in the kitchen, Sherlock.'_

' _Well, I insist that he should be here.'_

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	144. Chapter 144

_A/N: Third instalment. -csf_

* * *

 _ **Three.**_

Cold winter day, London streets are bustling with activity. People rushing about with driven intent, carrying parcels, meeting up with long lost family members, or arriving for holidays as tourists.

In our black cab, Sherlock is steadily watching out of the windows to the streets we pass by. The old man – we started calling him Chris, for his love of Christmas (I assume his temporary name is Chris Christmas then) and he is alright with that – sits opposite us, looking through the glass with awe, just as if he had never been in that part of London before. I worried for a second that he had some neurological space perception disorder, but I've come to find that it's just who he is. He could be back at Baker Street and still look at the houses, including 221B, with the same childlike sense of wonder and excitement.

I find Sherlock looking at me and turn around to face him directly. He hums and starts, out of the blue: 'That father of two at the corner is waiting for his mother-in-law. They have never met, but he already distrusts her, as is proved by the overpriced box of chocolates. A luxury gift that tells I-don't-know-you-and-I-don't-try like few others.'

I follow his gaze to the man we swiftly go by. 'A father of two?' I challenge.

'A bagged gift from a brand specialised in items for twins. Likely his, as the bag also holds a used coffee cup; so no-one will think much of the coffee stains. All in the family, they say.'

'I thought _it's never twins_ ', I remind him.

The great detective grunts under his breath. Perhaps it's my fault.

'Great deductions, by the way', I add belatedly. Somehow it doesn't appease him enough.

Chris curiously steps in on the conversation: 'You always deduce Christmas presents, Sherlock?'

We both nod at the same time. Sherlock adds a smile. 'I rarely am wrong.'

'Rarely but spectacularly', I notice.

He shrugs. 'I'm a detective, why wouldn't I guess gifts before opening them?'

 _You ruin the surprise for everyone when you guess other people's gifts, Sherlock._ This time I manage to keep quiet.

Chris narrows his eyes under his bushy eyebrows. 'Would you like to be surprised, Sherlock?'

Much to my shock, my friend sighs and confesses with a loose hand wave: 'Yes. I would. It's not like I can shut it off.'

Chris then turns to me. 'How about you, John? Would you rather be surprised or be gifted with what you wanted the most?'

I blink. _What I wanted the most for Christmas?_ I don't think I could say what that is...

Before I can answer, the old man smiles and leans back on his seat.

Like I say, it's just who he is.

 _ **.**_

It's not the Ritz, and doesn't try to compete in any way. Just a seedy hostel at a back street where people who are a bit down on their luck can spend the night at a cheaper price. Narrow corridors, stale scent of oily chips and dog hair (no dogs allowed), numbered doors left and right of a long wing. Just rooms, crowded, small, standard, utilitarian. Here people build their lives, or drift on to the flow of the tide. The old and the young, the working like the idle, they all coexist anonymously under the same roof.

We go past a drifting tune of "I'll Be Home for Christmas" and I sincerely hope they do find their home, wherever it may be, not only the singer but the listeners too.

Chris opens one of the doors, and Sherlock follows him with the same ease he'd have at the Ritz. I linger a bit on the corridor. I think I can hear a child coughing. A bad, lung deep cough that would halt any medical practitioner in their tracks.

'I'll be with you guys in a minute!' I direct to the room, as I'm already walking away.

I can hear Chris asking Sherlock: _'Where is John going?'_

' _To doctor someone. He does that often. He'll come back. Now show me the clothes you were wearing when you woke up at the police station's holding cell. Who you really are will be impressed all over them!'_

 _ **.**_

Sherlock was absolutely right. I got side tracked with a young sick child with a rash and a bad cough, and took the child and mother to the health centre. I stayed for as long as they needed me by their side. Made sure they had enough comfort to return to and promised I'd come back to check up on them in a few days.

Sadly, by the time I had done all that, Sherlock and Santa had already left "the Ritz".

Yes, at some point, in my exhaustion (don't know why I feel so tired), I started calling Chris "Santa", well because he looks like Santa. And "Chris" isn't his real name either anyway.

I hope Sherlock is somewhat closer to packing up Santa back to the North Pole, because I hate to see the lonely old man without a family and a home for the Christmas he enjoys so much.

I return to Baker Street with weary feet up the familiar steps. Keeping in mind I will be crashing on the sofa again, I approach the dim lit room with some relief.

Sherlock's not there, but I still get a shock. The place is all made up.

With Halloween decorations from a month ago.

I scrub my eyes. Not a hallucination. Right.

In fairness, this is much more Sherlock's idea of Christmas anyway. Glad the genius felt like participating at last.

There are dangling skeleton fairy lights on the mantel. Sherlock's pet skull is again the light of the party.

I sigh, and go collect that colourful bauble I put there earlier. There doesn't seem to be a place for it now.

Like it doesn't belong.

Is Sherlock amused? Is Halloween and Christmas all the same excess to his analytical mind? Did he just use what was at hand because he yearned for a quick fix to the mess he made, and hoped to make it up to me before I got home tonight?

I smile at last, an exhausted, surrender giggle; I know Sherlock only meant well. This is my Christmas gift.

Well, I didn't guess it, Sherlock, and you didn't blurt it out at the wrong time. Wrong season's greetings but thanks all the same. You're the greatest.

I put that old bauble away on the coffee table along with my wallet, keys and phone, and make a beeline for the sofa, determined to burrow off for the night.

Sherlock finally seems to have taken the old man's advice to heart and opened up for the season. I should be happier, but I feel too tired for that. Must make sure not to hurt my friend, and mask my feelings with fake overexcitement for everyone's sake.

 _ **.**_

I wake up snuggled in the spare duvet, wondering through sleepy blurry eyes what I'm doing on the living room's sofa. Then it comes back to me. I've been crashing on the sofa as Sherlock took a new client, a homeless old man, who took my room. Going by the quiet, orderly cooking sounds and the smell of breakfast emanating from the drawn kitchen doors, I'd say our guest is up already. It's definitely not Sherlock. There's be more chaos, broken glass, fallen pots and pans and a general wisp of dark smoke coming from the kitchen if Sherlock was cooking, or so he managed to persuade me so I'll be the one doing the cooking.

Pushing the duvet away, rubbing my face, collecting my belongings from the table; I chuckle at Sherlock's decor of the flat. The genius outdid himself. We'll have a most unconventional Christmas. Maybe I can still sneak in a tree to tie it all together for the guests...

'Oh, John, you're up!' Sherlock emerges from the sliding doors and smiles at the sight of me. 'Good morning. Chris told me I couldn't wake you up, and that case related news needed to wait. Worry not, I told him just how preposterous that notion is.'

'Yet, you didn't wake me up.'

'He distracted me. Coerced me into forced labour. On a related note, breakfast is ready, John. Come and join us.'

I get up, stretching my back. 'Thanks, Sherlock. I mean, for everything. The place', I gesture around, 'is done up.'

The genius' face falls at once. 'You don't like it.'

I blink, panic rising at the sight of devastation in his green eyes. 'Love it, in fact! It's very you, I mean, us!'

Sherlock looks about and grimaces. 'Halloween is over commercialised anyway.'

I chuckle at that. I'm about to assure him again that all is fine when I spot a small ginger cat in my armchair. _Little Dracula?_

The detective smiles softly. 'Christmas is also a time for gatherings, so I got the cat back.'

'I thought we had let him go and would never hear of him again.'

'We handed him to Mrs Hudson, John. He didn't get far. All I had to do was leave a cat treats trail on the stairs and on your armchair overnight, along with one of your cosiest jumpers, and the flat door ajar. Cat trap, if you will. Worked wonderfully', the detective self-congratulates, picking up the furry creature in his long arms. The cat just snuggles and purrs.

Oh, why not? It goes with the decor.

221B feels more like home than ever.

'Let's have some breakfast, Sherlock. I'm starving. And you need to tell me all you found out yesterday.'

I open the kitchen doors wider for the cat-lover detective to come through, and am rewarded with the warm, inviting smells of breakfast in the air.

'Where did Chris go?'

'He was here a minute ago', Sherlock says.

'He'll be back soon', we assume.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	145. Chapter 145

_A/N: What on Earth has this one become? -csf_

* * *

 _ **Four.**_

'So what did you find of our lodger, Sherlock? Any name, family connections, medicine prescriptions, taxes paid?'

In front of me the detective is buttering a piece of toast. I pour some tea for the both of us.

'The clothes he was wearing the day he forgot who he is were washed and pressed, thus eliminating most evidence, I'm afraid. There is such a thing as being too neat, John. Now there's a reason for us never to dust 221B! We lose valuable strata of information in case one of us – or both – shall fall prey to amnesia!'

'Mrs Hudson would tell us who we were. Go on, Sherlock, there must have been something!'

'Likely our guest is a recently retired postal worker. He has a fascination with letters and stationery. None sent or received, unfortunately. He also displays an incredible knowledge of London's streets, that could perhaps rival with mine.'

'But his shoes weren't worn out. Not an active postman anymore.'

'No', Sherlock agrees with me. 'I have sent some enquiries to the several post offices in London. We should hear back from them in one to two working days. I used first class stamps.'

I smirk at that.

'You like having him around. You like his company. Tell me, would he be a good addition to the Baker Street team if we don't find his home?'

Sherlock frowns. 'Of course we'll find him his home, John.'

I shrug. Yeah, of course. Where is the guy anyway?

'John', my friend calls me, ushered, tentative. 'Aren't you going to eat something? You can't live of tea, you know. A very good doctor told me that.'

I look down on my empty plate. Oh, right, yeah. Got myself distracted there. I give Sherlock my best smile and get myself a healthy serving of breakfast.

 _ **.**_

Chris Christmas is nowhere to be found in the flat, as we go look for him, finding his absence strange. I worry at one, and going by the tense features my friend sports, Sherlock is worried too. Where would a man with no home go to? Has he started to remember his past? Has he gone out to the cold streets to look for his memories again? His heart shouldn't be subjected to a prolonged strain like that; yet I understand his urge. He wants to go home for Christmas.

With no phone to call or triangulate the satellite signal, with no indication of where he might have gone and likely no money for taxis or busses, Chris can't be found the traditional ways, so Sherlock and I hit the streets anxiously.

We don't have to go far before we find the man we're looking for, collapsed on a side alley, just an anonymous form tucked away in a dingy shadowy alley that passersby ignore assuming the moral rock-bottom. We recognise him by his clothes, that I lent him, and zoom in on the crouching form at once. Sherlock calls an ambulance as I try to alleviate his heart pain, and keep him warm, wrapping my jacket around his cold shivering form.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock Holmes and doctor Watson often land themselves in hospital. Not usually together, in the same waiting room. Yet it's not as comforting as it should to be here with a healthy Sherlock, without an injury of my own, as we worry about Chris.

We knew his health was frail, yet we hoped for more time to give him his life and home back.

'Don't worry, John. We'll put a GPS tracker on him from now on.'

I chuckle weakly at that. Somehow Sherlock's shoulder inches in closer to mine, as we are sat side by side on the waiting room's seats. The warm comfort of his wool coat is gratifying at this moment in time. I'm wondering if I did enough, if I should have insisted on that physical check up, instead of granting the patient's wishes.

And even if I knew the particulars of his illness, chances are I couldn't have done a thing.

I think he'll recover, weaker than before, and all we can do is to take him back to 221B for Christmas. He's not alone.

 _ **.**_

My hand is cramping as I take up card after card, and letter after letter, of the season's greetings. There are friends (who should assume I mean them well without the explicit written proof), there are colleagues and sometimes even patients (who will judge harshly my card based on the amount of glitter and glued on extras the factory has out on them), there are clients who expect a contact from me (or Sherlock, but they are getting me; Sherlock won't let me forge his signature on these), and finally there are replies to all the little organised devils who beat me to it (only to spite me, I bet; some were sent more than a month in advance!).

I sigh and put down the pen for a second. I find that Sherlock is watching me, as ever.

'Why does it matter, how many cards we get, John?'

I blink. No, it's not about quantity, it's just...

He interrupts my speechlessness: 'Are we being responsible for destroying a small patch of forest for paper?'

'No. I mean, I don't think so. We recycle.'

'Answered these already?' he takes up one of my piles of correspondence. I nod. Ruthlessly he chucks them into the lit fireplace.

'Mrs H had sent one of those!' I protest in a squeal.

'Mrs H will know you have seen it and I don't care, John!' he assures, as he tries to grab another pile, the first one is still smoking and burning among the logs.

'Oh, no, you don't!'

He smirks. 'Oh, yes, I will!'

We give each other death defying glares.

 _ **.**_

'You two, young men! What have you done to the living room?'

From his armchair, the detective drawls lazily: 'Decorated it with what was at hand, Mrs Hudson.'

'And kidnapped my cat too!' she adds, grabbing the furry creature off my chair. She puts him on the ground and he turns his tail on her, and jumps to Sherlock's lap, purring. That won't appease our angered landlady in the slightest.

I just watch their argument while laboriously wrapping up presents in notoriously defiant paper. Maybe my head is not really on task; Chris will stay in hospital for the night, and I worry he'll feel lonely.

Mrs Hudson is still depreciating: 'A nice Christmas tree, some tinsel, sugar canes, that's the sort of thing you're meant to use. It's not rocket science, dear!'

'I personalised it for John.'

'Nonsense, Sherlock...' the old landlady shakes her head as she diligently walks about 221B. 'John needs a proper Christmas tree, and traditional puddings, a lovely table set with proper napkins and crackers, and all those boring things boring people enjoy.'

My complacent smile shatters at that. _Boring?_

Sherlock is self-assured when he replies: 'John is not boring like the rest of them, he wouldn't want that.'

I vaguely wonder who _they_ are...

'Sherlock...' she reproaches the genius with the familiarity of a mother (and still ignoring I'm in the room, by the table, furiously wrapping), 'John isn't like you. Only some years ago he was spending Christmas in the war. I'm sure the soldiers had lovely traditions of their own, and probably put tinsel in their vehicles, maybe had a popup tree and some tinned pudding.'

'Well, actually—' I start.

She ignores me altogether. 'This, Sherlock dear, is very nice, but hasty. You didn't think this through, young man, not like John always does.'

'Not really, I—' Again I'm ignored.

'Was this what John had in mind? Really? Or is this you just patching up your mess?'

Wow, our sweet Mrs Hudson is scolding Sherlock now. The overbearing genius just waits and listens patiently. If that's not an immense sign of respect and care, I don't know Sherlock Holmes at all.

'Mrs Hudson!' I interrupt more fiercely. She turns on me with a frown and I almost falter.

'It's fine, I like it, I'm happy.'

'You don't look happy to me, dear', she sentences sharply and walks away, as if me contradicting her had hurt her feelings.

Sherlock further supports that theory: 'You better go apologise, John. Here, take little Dracula. She's less likely to stay cross at you if she sees you holding a kitten.'

I'm lost for words.

 _ **.**_

I come back up to 221B feeling drained. Our landlady has been appeased, and all is well again in the world. I let myself collapse on my armchair, overdoing myself for dramatic purposes.

I glance over at Sherlock, the likely audience, but find him hiding in the shadows behind the curtains, looking out on to the street. Immediately I perk up and grab my gin from behind the Union Jack cushion (it's funny how no-one ever feels it there). Without even a look in my direction, Sherlock shakes his head.

'Not the time for firearms, John. These men have come for our absent guest and they haven't been dangerous yet.'

'Chris is being pursued by criminals?'

Sherlock blinks, before turning to me, looking oddly shaken.

'Has it never occurred to you that the man we've been housing, who cannot hold himself accountable for his past, might be – I don't know – a gang member?'

'But he's a harmless old man!' I protest.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'He is now. What he was before, or what he'll be once he has recovered the memory of who he is, might be a different thing altogether, John.'

'But... He looks like Father Christmas!'

Sherlock frowns and looks away. 'And what a wonderful disguise that must be...'

'You don't really think Chris is a criminal mastermind!'

Sherlock sighs. 'No, I don't. But in all rationality I need to keep that option open, for those men waiting to catch up with our guest on the street outside, they bear all the signs that they are indeed hardened criminals.'

'Chris can't take that strain, his heart is too weak.'

'Then we must figure this out and neutralise this threat before Chris is released from hospital.'

I nod my vow. Sherlock adds, worry in his voice:

'John, why did Chris leave 221B to go outside anyway?'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	146. Chapter 146

_A/N: I need a Christmas jumper. -csf_

* * *

 _ **Five.**_

'I'm not liking this, Sherlock.'

'Hush now, John! You enjoy being contrary, but this is not the time!'

If being here in a white wig and beard ensemble straight from Sherlock's theatrical trunk of disguises, and wearing the old man's coat for good measure, is not a "good time" to be contrary to the silly impersonation plan to fool the thugs outsiders, when it backfires – _then_ it might be just the right time?

'Sherlock, I won't fool them.'

'Not if you keep grumpy like that. Chris is not grumpy.'

'We don't know how Chris really is, let alone who he is!' I remind the detective. Sherlock frowns at that.

'Having second thoughts about our guest?'

I glance on the general direction of the street outside, with the lurking gangsters waiting. 'No. I've got a good feeling about Santa.'

'He's not Santa, John, that's an unsubstantiated guess!'

'Well, I started calling him that! For all we know he could actually be Santa. You know, never discard a theory before all the evidence is collected?' I remind my friend of his maxims.

'I didn't mean take a theory at random and latch onto it!'

I cross my arms in front of me, stubbornly. 'It's who I am, Sherlock. Like it or leave it!'

Slowly a smirk emerges on Sherlock's lips. Even I must admit my friend can be incredibly accommodating at times.

'I like you, I've made that choice a long time ago', he embarrasses me with what's due. 'Now can we improve your general mood with a good old fashioned criminals chasing?'

I smile. 'Took you forever to ask!'

 _ **.**_

'Don't look back, John. They are looking at us, you can't look at them.'

 _I know that._ A bit unnerving walking down the street like this, mostly annoying; why can't we just go up to them and forcefully make them spill out their plans?

The noise of rushed footsteps and I know that some outside stimuli has triggered the chase. Sherlock and I glance at each other and obligingly trail off in a good sprint.

Blood rushing in my veins, sharp breaths, quick reflexes. I feel alive and happy. Going by Sherlock's natural smile – the one he's absently sporting, softening his features – my friend is happy too.

For now we allow them to pursue us; soon the tide will change.

Turn the corner. Up some stone steps. Sharp, short, rapid thumping of feet. Cut through the park, flocks of pigeons take off from our path. Soft, muddy grass. "Keep off the grass" – too late! Off to the left, through the hedge, out of sight. Duck under the branches, dirt crumbling under our feet on the terrain slope. Sherlock and I cross thick, spiky hawthorn shrubs. He seems to have known of this gap in the cast iron fence. We sneak through. A residential street on the other side.

Muffled steps behind us. They followed us. Across the street. Car tyres screeching to a hasty stop. I apologise dismissively. Sherlock is already edging me on from the other sidewalk. I follow him into a dingy alley between buildings. Fire escape ladder. We rush up the metal steps. Footsteps pounding multiply as our pursuers enter the narrow stairwell too.

Gunshot. I flinch. Sherlock glances at me so quickly he might have whiplashed his neck; checking if I'm alright, further down, closer to danger. I'm fine, Sherlock, and my gun is excited for the company. Not yet. Sherlock won't let me rid us out the pursuers. We want to know who they are.

Top ledge, at the end of a slated roof, behind the masonry façade projection. We carefully choose our steps in the corroded surface. The detective leads me to a metal door that allows entrance to the building, splaying his large hand on a No Smoking sign.

It doesn't give in as expected.

No doubling back act. No surprising the bad guys by coming up from behind them. We've lead them to pin us in a sitting duck trap. Sherlock miscalculated. It happens. He always denies it happens. We always adjusts the plan and moves on. We're on the run again.

Suddenly Sherlock pulls me down, behind a tall chimney. We hide with suspended breaths. Time stands still. The seconds hang eerily in the air before dissolving into the ether, dragging on.

My loaded gun is set in my hand, molten into my skin. I keep it low, by my side, one relaxed finger looped on the trigger.

A sharp noise behind us – and I know Sherlock is unarmed, he must be protected at all cost – I get up, extending my arm, aiming by instinct and I'm pulling the trigger—

When I get knocked down by six feet something of detective on a mission. A bullet zooms past my good friend's jet black hair, missing him by inches. At once I know it was a trap, a mere gimmick to make us look, to expose our positions.

'They threw a pebble, John! Stop trying to shoot anything that moves!' Sherlock hisses at me.

I nod, a bit embarrassed. That's when I spot it. Just a light reflex on a bit of broken glass laying on the roof's end, by the ledge. A harmless flash of darkness on the clear smooth surface, as if something interposed itself between the glass and the sunlight. And I know, sure as Sherlock knew it was just a gimmick before, I know this time it's not planned. Call it a soldier's instinct if you will, that feeling that you get of temperature dropping drastically and deafening silence as if the air got sucked into a vacuum just before an explosive device goes off or gunpowder is deflagrated in the chamber.

'Get down!' I warned. I couldn't tell what volume of voice I used, could have been a yell or a murmur, what language I meant it in, for it was universal in desperation and meaning alike. I could tell you I put myself between that shadow and Sherlock. Human shield. No regrets. Just me, throwing my friend off balance to get him out of harm's way. Just one soldier fighting a life battle in the eerie silence that hangs heavily before the blast.

We get knocked over, Sherlock gasps in pain as his back hits the harsh surface, and my gun falls loose from my flaccid fingers; the sound of metal colliding on slate is nowhere near dramatic enough. Confident long fingers drag over my hand and wrap around the abandoned gun, lifting it and taking charge.

I gasp, holding my injured arm. Just a flesh wound; Sherlock is the hero now. I see my friend's furious expression as he aims vindictively my gun at our pursuers. It's a dark fire that dwells inside him, ready to burn the enemy.

'I'm alright', I gasp. Sherlock's shoulders relax visibly, but not his features. He's going to avenge me, he seems to silently promise.

' _Send grandpa over!'_ the demand is shouted from across the roof. _'We just want the old man!'_

Right. I'm still in disguise. I adjust the wig that was trailing off, in a wordless decision that my friend picks up on with no effort.

'Come and get him!' Sherlock teases.

I'm tying Sherlock's exquisite scarf, generously offered with a silent gesture, tying it around my upper arm to stop the bleeding. I'm a bit shaken, the adrenaline still coursing through me making me tremble ever so slightly.

Just a flesh wound.

'Lay down your gun!' we're directed.

'Alright.' Much to my shock, Sherlock actually seems ready to do that. He slowly starts getting up – I try to grab him and pull him down but I use the right arm, closer to him, and flinch with pain before I reach him – and he twirls the gun so that his got it suspended with his index finger on the trigger loop but the gun is resting against his open palm, in display.

I grunt to the roof, under my held breath. _Sherlock, don't!_ He must be panicking. _I'm not that hurt!_ We mustn't give up. _It's just a graze!_ Sherlock!

There are four of them, I can see them clearly now, as they come out on the open to collect the gun and the old man lying on the roof's end. I hide my face away, giving in to that response of pain, that serves me well so I don't get identified as the wrong person just yet. I trust Sherlock will have a plan.

The tension mounts as the enemies approach. As they reach arm's length, my friend twirls the gun again and uses the bug of it to smack down the first opponent, and throwing him against the second. From my lower angle I can hardly keep up as a spectator of the sudden combat techniques Sherlock is pulling off against four opponents at once. I do the only thing I can think of; I join my friend in the fight.

I can still kick and throw a mean swing with my left arm. Sherlock is a self-taught fighter that seamlessly mingles martial arts with street fight techniques, I'm a trained soldier and war veteran with too much pent-up anger. By the time Sherlock knees the gut of the third guy, I'm slamming the fourth against the roof tiles, and the police sirens become audible from the street below. I glance at Sherlock, he nods sharply, acknowledging authorship. He must have texted Lestrade for back up from the depths of his coat pocket, a while back.

I blink and sway in the spot. Immediately a steady hand pulls me against a solid wall of detective, away from the ledge. 'We got-em', I mutter.

'We got them, John', Sherlock repeats.

'I thought we were just going to find out who they are.'

'We did slightly more', Sherlock acknowledges. 'They will be identified, tell their story to the police and Chris will be safe from them.'

'Simple case, really. Not in your usual league at all, Sherlock.'

He hums, just to please me. Still carrying some darkness in his features.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	147. Chapter 147

_A/N: The phone conversation is inspired on my sister. For someone who pretends to be a writer twice a week (that's me), I really should be better at talking with her. (Merry Christmas, sis, you don't read this, I know, love you all the same.) -csf_

* * *

 _ **Six.**_

'So this client of yours, his description is that he looks like Santa?' Greg Lestrade is trying to look serious, with all his might. His loyal brown eyes are twinkling behind a good sip from a coffee cup. He points a finger our way whilst never letting go of the steaming cup. 'Guys, you've led me on before, but at least you tried being convincing about it...' he pleads.

I give the inspector a nasty look. Sherlock, by my side, has yet to divert his attention from the paramedics work on my wound, as we all cram into the small serviceable ambulance stationed in the street.

Another ruined jumper and I'm angry at myself.

'I took the place of our client, Greg. He doesn't know about it.'

'Santa didn't tell you why these thugs were after him? Santa overworked the wrong elf? He dumped cheaper merchandise in those guy's market to undercut their trade? Santa's sleigh bells were too loud on Christmas night? Or the thugs' boss never got that water pistol he asked of Santa when he was a child?'

Greg chuckles to himself. I just direct my gaze to Sherlock. If anyone can make some sense of this it must be the great Sherlock Holmes.

The detective guards his secrets for now, pretending full curiosity over the oxygen tank in the ambulance. A bit of a covert threat there too, I suppose.

'Well, Sherlock?' the inspector pressures our friend.

Sherlock directly faces the inspector, then me. 'You'll have access to the identities of the petty criminals you've collected from the roof, Lestrade. That should enlighten you somewhat. Meanwhile I can tell you there is a crime syndicate here at play. A bad one. Just one look at those men tells us that. A tattoo on the neck, they all had it. Surely not even you two could have missed it!'

I can feel myself blush. No, didn't really see it. And judging by the inspector sudden restlessness, he didn't spot a repeated tattoo either. Sherlock rolls his eyes, not in a mean way, but more of an overworked way. 'It showed a stylised partridge.'

I squint, trying to focus. 'On a pear tree?' I ask at last.

Sherlock fulminates me with an irate look. 'Their gang is violent, John! I trust you to keep memory of that for more than' he glances at his wristwatch 'thirty seven minutes.'

I gather my ruined jumper and soiled disguise, and force myself up from the gurney where I sat. 'That reminds me, we're to pick up our Santa.'

Greg raises a hand at once. 'Hey, what about statements? I have a bunch of criminals out there and I'll have to let them go if I can't come up with some charges, you know?'

Sherlock dismisses at once: 'John can go with you and provide both our statements. He knows how I talk, he can successfully impersonate me for the records.'

I blink, shocked. I'm being let off because I got myself shot? _I'm really sorry!_

Greg chuckles. 'Alright, I'll take John if that's all I'm getting. Come along, John. I'll get you a coffee at the Yard. We've got a new coffee machine. By the time we get there some Yarder will have figured out how it works.'

I still glance at Sherlock, but he's already leaving the ambulance through the open doors. He doesn't even look back.

'Sherlock!' It's the inspector that calls him back. Our friend glances at me before offering kindly: 'I'll get Sally to go collect Santa. He's a witness to the case, and I'll need his statement too. Stay with John. He looks shaken.'

I shake my head furiously. _I'm fine. Don't ned a babysitter._

The Baker Street detective returns, hands united behind his back and blank expression. It irks me at once.

'You can go, mate', I grumble. 'Investigate the case without me. Like you were going to. I'm a nuisance, I get it.'

'That's very logical, John.'

I look up, trying hard to conceal my hurt. Our gazes meet and he adds: 'Also quite off the mark. I believe you might be in the early stages of shock. You are currently blabbering nonsense.'

Slowly I smile. 'Then why were you okay to go without me, you git?'

His gaze darkens. 'John, you're hurt. While I appreciate your faithful company, I should not assume it under such trying circumstances.'

I huff to his crap-filled eloquence.

That's when we spot Greg coming back, putting away his phone. Immediately we can tell something's not right.

'Your client is gone, guys. He checked himself out earlier this afternoon.'

 _Oh, no. We lost Santa._

I look on over to Sherlock. He didn't see that one coming either.

 _ **.**_

We came back to Baker Street. Under Sherlock's steady insistence, I came to have a quick quip on the sofa. Sherlock is busying himself multitasking on his phone, doing mysterious enquiries, sending out orders, receiving and distributing information, and organising a search. I watch him dizzily through blurred eyes.

My phone rings and I take it out of the coffee table top. _Harry._ This should be fun...

'Hi, sis!' By a force of habit I'm already moving away from Sherlock, from witnesses within earshot. As usual my sister won't disappoint.

' _It's "Harry", the name's "Harry"'_ , she slithers the words through the grainy connection. I can hear blasting music on the background, and the occasional clunk of glass on table tops. Down at the pub, again. Not very original.

'Actually it's Harriet, but you never liked—'

' _Sobriety's up.'_

'No, don't! You were doing great! It's just a setback, Harry. Don't throw it all away!' I hastily try to encourage her.

' _Missy left me.'_

'Who's Missy?' I frown.

' _Mandy's ex.'_

'Who's Mandy?' I'm lost.

' _You're a rubbish brother, John! Mandy was the love of my life from April to October!'_

'Right...' I never know how to say the right thing. 'How's work coming along?'

' _Go to hell, John! I'll see you there!'_ She hangs up the call abruptly and I feel terrible.

"It's all going to be okay, Harry." Damn it, John, how hard would it have been to say that?

I lean my forehead against the corridor's wallpaper, seeking relief in the cold wall. It doesn't quite do the trick.

'John?'

It's Sherlock calling me, questioning me softly. He could hear the tense undertones in my one-sided conversation, in the least.

'Just Harry, my sister.'

Sherlock narrows his eyes. 'Drunk, dumped and self-pitying?' he guesses.

I smirk. 'Wouldn't be Christmas otherwise.'

'Did you get a word in?'

I scold him with a frown. 'Don't be silly. Harry would never allow that!'

'Oh, good', he smiles at the wallpaper. I am utterly confused. He finally tells me: 'Predictability, John. Your sister's predictability is a source of comfort in an ever changing world...'

I giggle at that. I really shouldn't, so I giggle harder. Sherlock is soon joining me, chuckling along.

Oh, we're all mad around here...

 _ **.**_

Footsteps on the stairwell. I immediately pull myself together again.

'Hello, Mrs Hudson!'

Sherlock is tense now. He whispers harshly: 'She's not alone, John. Mrs Hudson is incredible.'

'Yeah, I know. Wait, why?'

'She's bringing us Santa.'

I smile, relieved. 'Will you not call him that?' I set my friend straight, nonetheless.

'You started it.'

I sigh and go meet the landlady and the missing client.

'Chris? Where were you? We were dead worried about you!'

The old man is a bit winded from the seventeen steps up to 221B, but looks to be in one piece, calm and collected. He must have no idea of the armed thugs the Yard is now holding and how they were after him in the first place.

'I came home, John', he answers plainly. 'Nothing to do at the hospital. I'm a very sick man, we both know that. I don't want to spend my remaining time in a busy hospital waiting to be discharged by overworked doctors and nurses.'

'But...' I start. Mrs Hudson steps in:

'Don't mind doctor Watson now, Chris. He's a worrier, he is.'

'Mrs Hudson has been telling me your stories and she's shown me your blog. I particularly like your blog on the Russian dolls case.'

I frown. Russian dolls case? That was ages ago, and not Christmas-y at all.

 _I keep forgetting he's not really Santa._

'It's really all Sherlock's incredible work, I just narrate it', I mumble.

The landlady adds: 'Chris has fixed my window, John. You know, the one that was jammed. He fixed it right up, like a professional.'

'Yes, sorry, Mrs Hudson, I had promised to do that', I admit.

'It's alright, dear. Some people are just better with their hands using tools. Your hands are better at minor surgery and shooting dimly lit targets from across the street, that's all. And Sherlock plays the violin or dissects a heart beautifully, but he doesn't know one end of a screwdriver from the other. There's nothing to be ashamed of.'

Good old Mrs Hudson; keeping us all grounded.

Sherlock ushers the client back into our quarters. Mrs Hudson glances at my arm in a sling and shakes her head. 'Oh, John, I do wish you'd take better care of yourself, young man... I shouldn't be surprised one day our boy Sherlock locks you up in the flat to keep you from harm. He's fiercely protective of you. The least you could do for him was to keep yourself safe, dearie.'

I blink. 'What, Sherlock? No, he's— Hang on, I got shot at!'

'Don't go on and on about it, dear. Just do better next time. Think about Sherlock. And at Christmas time too...'

We're still on the landing, and I'm getting more and more confused.

'What about Christmas?' I try to make sense of this surreal stream of conversation.

'Think of all the Christmases Sherlock spent alone, when he was away, wondering if you were alright. If you were eating right, sleeping through the night, and having enough excitement in your life. And he couldn't check on you, risk exposing you to Jim's dangerous men. It's a terrible way to spend the season of family and friends. And here you are, getting yourself shot – again! – seriously, John?' she shakes her head. 'Rubbish, it's just utter rubbish.'

She moves inside 221B and I'm left scolded on the landing. _I didn't get shot on purpose!_

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	148. Chapter 148

_A/N: One more after this one._ -csf

* * *

 _ **Seven.**_

Hours later, as I snuggle in my duvet on the sofa, and night time is a quiet companion in 221B, I think back on the blog Chris mentioned. The Russian dolls case. Moscow, spies, stunning blonds, car chases in the city centre, snow – it had all the makings of a great adventure. And I did my best to blog about it as such. But as I look back at my own chosen words, black over white, on the illuminated phone screen, I can still sense the hidden emotions. Shortly after landing I fell ill with a nasty flu. We got figured out by Russian secret services and targeted at once. Sherlock and I went on the run, and let me tell you, those streets are cold and bare when you are no more than an outcast. Soon Sherlock decided we had to recover the item. Can't really remember what it was anymore. Pearl necklace, diplomat's papers, Maltese falcon? I just followed Sherlock blindly, through alleyways and under bridges, even over thick ice under a train passage once. The flu, perhaps, was the main reason I had no fun. Who wants a flu at Christmas? I distinctly remember exhaustedly siting on a dirty, muddy street corner, hiding in the shadows, shivering and sweating, while Sherlock analysed a map – a real paper map of the streets; we suspected our phones were bugged and anything we did with them could be traced. And I wish Sherlock would call it all off, and we could come back to London. I was homesick and my biggest wish was to go back home, be with my friends, warm and well fed, and that would be my best Christmas wish come true.

 _I feel for Chris. As long as he doesn't recall who he is, he can't go home for Christmas._

Sherlock eventually found the missing object inside a coffin about to be buried! No one suspected there was a smaller, lighter object inside instead of a dead man, because the criminals used several coffins, one inside another, like Russian dolls, to make up for the weight and unused space. We made them drop the coffin with all the incrementally smaller coffins inside, shattering on the ground and exposing the secret. Soon after I had my wish granted. We were coming back home and I was over the flu at the same time. Christmas, however, was a rushed job at Baker Street.

I put my blog away and look at Sherlock's Halloween Christmas decor. Maybe Mrs Hudson is right. I should do something about it. Maybe I really am boring.

 _ **.**_

'Have a cup of tea, inspector.'

It's bright and early in the morning, and Greg finds us in the kitchen, having breakfast. Not just Sherlock and I but also Santa. I mean, Chris. _I mean,_ the client whose identity is yet unknown. Hopefully Greg can shed some light on that.

'The thugs talked. They had quite a bit to say.' He hesitates by a chair for a mere instant before pulling it and sitting himself, at home. 'It seems our client is not Santa Claus after all.'

Chris looks mildly confused at the inspector's odd humour, I presume. He never knew we called him that directly.

'Did you really ponder I could be Santa, Sherlock? How very methodical?' The old man's jolly laughter almost contradicts his denial.

Greg Lestrade continues more kindly, keeping in mind the old man's heart condition.

'Those thugs were after your client, Sherlock, by pure, coincidental luck.'

The consulting detective huffs, as if coincidences were unfair plays in the game of life for a detective determined to follow the meanders of reason.

'Go on.'

'Your client, you commented, is very knowledgeable of London's streets, but not much of a walker, his shoes are hardly worn. He smiles a lot, and has the wrinkles to prove it. Possibly retired now, you said. You suspected postal worker. You weren't that far off, Sherlock.'

The detective growls at once: 'Don't patronize me. Go on, say it.'

'Cabbie. And has a black cab driver he took people and their belongings all around London. He even took a forgetful gangster that left behind an important case. In it, the material proof of a crime committed at the address your client picked him up from. Not a very careful gangster, this one. Nor a clever one, hiding a smoking gun in a business case. But a committed one. He returned, found your client's taxi, ran him off the road just in the outskirts of London. It was dark. No one else about. The cabbie left the scene in shock, grabbing on to the tossed about belongings. Not really remembering what happened, who he was, or that the case by his feet wasn't his. Such was his state that he couldn't memorize leaving the cab behind. With little money in his pocket – it must have been the first client of the day and all he had in his pocket was change – he managed to walk to a police station. There they described him as a confused old man, wondering lost about the streets. No one suspected a slight concussion, they just though he had wondered off from his home and family and didn't know how to get back because his mental health was fragile. They referred him to a charity that donated clean clothes, a friendly ear, and put him up for the night at a hostel. The next day, still a bit blurry on recent events as a concussion will understandably get anyone, he was found by Sherlock Holmes walking along Baker Street, looking for something that jogged his memory.'

I glance at the old man, listening in rapt attention, making an effort to remember.

'Yes, why Baker Street?'

'His wife says that's where they had their first date, over fifty years ago. Maybe a lingering good feeling still remained in the bottom of his damaged memory.'

Santa's face lights up. 'My wife? I've got a wife?'

Greg smiles. 'Yes. And she wants you home for Christmas. She's been worried sick.'

'But I don't remember having married—'

He stops short, as if in a daze, looking over my shoulder, to the landing beyond the kitchen door. I turn around. A kind faced old woman is expectantly smiling at Chris Santa. Only a slight vulnerability taints her loving gaze, as she waits to be recognised. Hoped and prays he can still know who she is deep down, but also promises to stay by his side even if not.

'Darling!'

I look over at Santa, worried about a shock to his trail health. But he's smiling as if he knows who she is, he's known her for most of his life. He remembers now, and her presence is doing him a world of good.

A Christmas miracle of sorts.

Greg Lestrade starts introducing everybody. The reunited couple are hardly listening. I elbow Sherlock. For once he picks up on my social cue.

'This toast is not satisfying me, inspector. Shall we go down to the cafe and order us something else?' he diverts.

I glance at the old couple. They need time to catch up on lost time.

 _ **.**_

Later, Lestrade and I insist in taking the old couple – Mr and Mrs Santa – home. It's a bit of a drive away and by the time we return, sunlight is dying over the fireplace, substituted by the bright, electric lights. The city is closing early, for the most part. Few people wander about, carrying parcels and huffing in the chilly air. It's Christmas eve, I remember at last.

'You need to go home, inspector. Your job is done.'

He looks oddly at me for a second, maybe because I called him "inspector", but nods all the same.

'Take a couple of days off, you two! It's Christmas, you know?' he waves us goodbye.

He drives off as I'm opening the front door.

'There you are, John! Been looking for you!'

Sherlock is just behind the front door, hands benignly behind his back. I groan. He's forgotten I went out already? He hurries me off my scarf and jacket and haphazardly tosses them to the hanger.

Together we go up to 221B. My friend with brisk steps, mine a bit more of the dragging type, tired out.

Sherlock lets me walk in first. I'm mechanically following that curious fragrant scent of pine and cinnamon and warm fireplace logs slowly crumbling to the crackling flames. The soft glow from the fire on the earth competes with the twinkling lights from the tall Christmas tree, row after row of tinsel and shiny glass pendants from every branch. And scattered in that perfect luxurious tree, lots and lots of cheap metallic surfaced baubles, just like those I got for our first 221B Christmas.

The tree is altogether taller than me!

I twirl around to find Sherlock. He's expectantly waiting on my reaction.

'Why?' is all I ask. It's never "how" – Sherlock does incredible things every day – it's always "why".

He looks taken aback.

'Not ...good?'

My heart feels tight at those insecure words. He's a good friend, he wants to please me, make me happy. That's all I ever wanted too, for Sherlock to have a happy season.

'It was perfect the way it was! Just your type of Christmas!'

'I like this one too, John. I like your Christmas too.'

I sigh and shake my head.

'But you threw away your idea!'

He tilts his head. 'John. I already feel at home. I wanted to make sure you did too. This is your home.'

 _John, you're not saying the important things._

My turn to assure him. Which I do my own way. I step forward decidedly, stiff back and set jaw. 'It has been my home from the beginning, Sherlock. You never treated me like I was just barging in, and that's how I felt so often in the very London I knew. Here, however, there were never your things and my things. You always appropriated my laptop for your use, my jumpers for your evil experiments and always – always – you've been so careful with lending me all your things, which you know perfectly well make up the majority of the 221B stuff. Sherlock, I've seen you use that electric kettle and, at the end, rotate the handle so it faces the left.'

He seems confused by my outburst, failing to follow it. 'A mere habit.'

'I'm left-handed and I have a borderline unhealthy addiction to tea. You leave that kettle positioned for my convenience because I'm the primary user. Well, it's your kettle, Sherlock. Normal flatmates don't do that.'

'Nonsense, John!' he protests. 'It's just a kettle and I am not normal – I refuse to be "normal"!' he ends with a grimace and a shiver, sitting down sideways on his chair's arm.

'For a self-proclaimed sociopath you sure go out of your way to make me feel at home a lot, mate.'

He twirls his hand in the air. 'I'm not confident in social interactions standards, I may have overdone it in some areas.'

 _Fibbing, Sherlock..._

An unbidden smile comes to my lips. 'You're not fooling anyone, my friend. Underneath that arrogant exterior you are a softie.'

He takes prejudice at once. 'I'll let you know I'm a profoundly egotistical being determined to excel and self-protect at any cost, to prove my superiority over the ordinary lot.'

'Pfft! You don't believe a word you just said! I can tell. You get all shifty eyed, mate.'

His eyes twinkle too. He looks young, curious, engaged. Sherlock can't ever tell how I read him so well. He also enjoys our banter.

'How did you know?'

I'm the one voicing the same question in both our minds. Sherlock wouldn't get fooled so easily by my stoic – yet imperfect – act. As always he stepped it up to a perfectly debauched level. Huge tree, intricate and mesmerising decor, stockings by the fire, Christmas crackers, booze, food, and most importantly I now suspect he also enlisted the help of our friends to show me I'm not alone. He wants me to be happy and he'll quite frankly tell me I'm being moody now. Of course I've always tried not to be moody, and I fooled a lot of people – but not the one friend that always sees right through me.

'Okay, then.' I clear my throat, and set my shoulders. 'What have you in store for us this Christmas?'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	149. Chapter 149

_A/N: I hope you have a happy and peaceful time, whatever your beliefs, customs, and traditions. However, for some of us this can be a straining time. We don't all have a Sherlock, after all! All we can do is reach out to others, to support them, or for support. Sometimes we feel we are alone, but that isn't - or won't be - true forever. -csf_

* * *

 _ **Eight.**_

The fire is crackling in the mantel as two friends sit beside it, in the familiar sights of 221B.

'When you moved in, I had no friends, John. Naturally I took a keen interest in you and your social abilities', Sherlock tells me, over a steaming cup of tea.

 _He's fibbing._ 'Not true. You had Mrs Hudson. And Lestrade. And Molly. And more, I'm sure. As for me, I was back in London for some weeks, but really had no one. Harry wasn't... truly available. And everyone else I had lost or left behind.'

Sherlock tilts his head, curiously. 'Not true. You had Mike Stamford. And... You have lots of friends, wherever you go, John.'

I put my mug down.

'I knew Stamford from medical school. Hadn't heard from him in years, hadn't thought of him for that long... You were my first friend, coming back, Sherlock. The best one too.'

He gulps down, blushing ever so slightly. I secretly enjoy immensely getting to the genius.

'John, I wanted to find you your old friends. Mycroft wouldn't help. He wouldn't arrange for a secret military mission in London. Well, in 221B. He said it was a waste of stretched out resources.'

I smile, genuinely. 'Thanks for the thought. I bet you even planted a suggestion on Harry to have her phone me. So; tree, lights, family, friends. What brought this about? Why did you try so hard to make this the perfect Christmas for me?'

'Chris told me to.'

I tilt my head, pensive.

'You never follow advice, Sherlock.'

'I wanted to, this time', he admits.

'Is this still about the old decorations you ruined for Science? By the way, you know I'd have been totally okay with that if I had been invited to join in on the madness, right?'

He smirks at that. He knew I'd eventually calm down. 'No, it wasn't over your love of cheap Christmas trinkets, not really. You could say it was because of only one bauble. The one you kept despite all the others' demise. You've been carrying it around, with your wallet, and phone and keys. That's when I really understood you missed the other ones. What they once stood for.'

I look on over to the illuminated, luxurious tree. The scent of warm pine mingling with the spiced from the mulled wine in the kitchen. Sherlock has really outdid his previous effort to make it up to me.

'You got us new baubles. Very mismatched too. I like that. With you it's always about expecting the unexpected.' I reach for my tea and sip it quietly.

Sherlock smirks warmly at me before He gets up and unites his hands behind his back, turning to the tree. _Oh, this is going to blow my mind, isn't it?_

He turns rather suddenly and relays like a fast paced monologue: 'The pink glitter bauble was Molly's donation, from a set she got at uni. The shiny purple one is one of Mrs Hudson's personal collection she brought over from America, I believe. Lestrade donated the silver one, he nicked it from the tree they put up at the Yard, if you can keep a secret. He also got you that other one, that he got from his own Christmas tree at home. Mycroft sent the preposterous gaudy one through Anthea, who for once looked bewildered with the task given to her. Your colleagues at the surgery sent a collective parcel of ordinary pound shop baubles that I shall keep for smoke bombs with your permission, John! They really need to do better than that! That golden one was sent by that client we had last year that we saved the wife's life. The one next to it—'

I let my friend's melodious voice lull me as I hear every single trinket's provenance. Simple things, one less bauble of someone's full tree, and altogether a beautiful demonstration that I'm not alone, I'm home, here at 221B with Sherlock.

'And yours?' I dare to ask, as my friend catches his breath.

'Top. I arranged for the piece on the top of the tree.'

I smile as I take notice that it's Sherlock's fireplace skull that perches on the top of the tree. One of Sherlock's truly prized possessions. And a bit of Sherlock style in our joint Christmas.

'I like it very much. It's perfect.'

He finally smiles, as he watches me smile.

'Just drop it, John, among the others.'

He means my one treasured, surviving bauble. _But the tree is already perfect, don't want to spoil it!_

I hand it to my friend, in an open hand. He won't take it. It's to be my decision. I look appreciatively to the fabulous Christmas tree production. Finally I find it, a bare spot. Just where the bauble belongs.

It's perfect.

 _ **.**_

Silly paper crown on, Lestrade is trying to convince Molly Hooper that the stockings that Sherlock put up on the fireplace are socks we aren't wearing on one foot each right now. She's laughing at his insistence because he knows he's been caught but persists like a trooper.

I find Sherlock eyeing me covertly from the other side of the lively room. I'm surprised to see him smiling as he appreciates my involvement in the party. A genuine, happy smile, for he knows me so well, he knows I'm happy right now, _and so is he._

Mrs Hudson walks in, proudly carrying a silver tray of puddings and she insists I take one, as she finds me shuffling through Sherlock's scores of classical music for some rendition of a Christmas classic. I take a bite at the pudding and the sharp tanginess of old alcohol burns my mouth. 'They're lovely and ripe, Mrs H!' I force a smile through the tears building up in my eyes.

'No, no, I left them a bit late this year... They could use a bit more soaking', she humbly reports.

 _They're are so flammable they should come with a miniature fire extinguisher, Mrs H!_

Sherlock passes the offer his hands already on the precious violin and merrily conjures a tune without help.

'John!' Lestrade beckons me for some silly parlour game where we're getting blindfolded and hitting each other at an arm's length with a Christmas cracker. I still look over my shoulder at Sherlock in a request for him to join us, but he shakes his head almost imperceptibly, so only I'll see it. Soon I'm blindfolded, grabbing Greg by the hand and hitting him with the other one, as he tries to evade me. It's easy as he's cackling away, giving himself away every time. Molly gets in there, trying to even the dispute and suddenly it's two against one. I'm laughing so hard I can't fight back.

I'm still laughing as I notice the blank silence. Worriedly I lift the blindfold and look around to the silent room. Sherlock points his violin bow on the direction above my head. Oh, mistletoe. Someone coughs discreetly behind me. I turn. Mrs Hudson, and she's got a kind smile. You must obey tradition, so I kiss her on the cheek and give her a good hug as well, for good measure. The gang cheers and Sherlock restarts the cheery music, being hailed for it. My friend is altogether more comfortable doing his speech from the corner of the room, through his instrument, but I can tell he's having a good time.

'Food's almost up!' I promise as I go check the oven, slipping away from the madness of warm conversations, wild giggles and homeliness.

I stop by the kitchen window where my eye has found a small envelope on the window sill. _John & Sherlock_, it says, in elegant, unhurried handwriting.

 _Thank you for everything_ , I read as soon as I open the piece of paper inside. _You gave me and my family my life back. I'll be back home for Christmas thanks to you._

 _I know now I'm not Chris anymore, or some lost Santa wandering about Baker Street, but I really enjoyed the possibilities there. You kindly opened your home and lives to me, in true season spirit._

 _I'll be seeing you around,_

 _A very merry Christmas,_

" _Chris"_

Somewhere in the distance the sound of bells jingling can be heard in the cold night outside.

 _ **.**_


	150. Chapter 150

_**1st.**_

I should have got those four pints of milk, the milk is never enough. I still have no idea how Sherlock manages to go through so much milk in one morning. He's obviously not drinking it. Sometimes I think he's just bored and testing my patience, some other times I actually believe he's trying to get me out of the flat to smuggle in some dangerous chemical, meet a foreign Russian spy or perform an unofficial autopsy of an alien. With Sherlock, anything is possible, after all.

I've been walking down Baker Street with my attention caught by the left over Christmas decorations of windows and balconies overhanging the street. One person has misspelt "Christmas" or a few letters got badly smudged. That one has several twinkle lights short-circuited, and they'll probably still be hanging by April.

One window arrests me in my step, inundating me with a deep feeling of ... _dread_.

In fake snow spray on a large, bare window, someone left a message in huge capitals: "I'm back", followed by a smiley face.

Just like Moriarty did when he signed his infamous "Get Sherlock" over the crown jewels display case. What on earth—

" _I'm back."_

" _Miss me?"_ As one undead criminal consultant would not be expected to communicate, unless any writing was possible from the after life. As an opening bid for...

 _I'm back._

This is a message for Sherlock Holmes, and I need to make Sherlock aware of this at once.

Scrap that, not only Sherlock. I need Lestrade and the Yard, Mycroft and the Secret Services, Mrs Hudson and the gang. Whether this is a prank in bad taste or the real deal of Jim Moriarty's return, Sherlock is not facing this alone. _He's got us._

 _ **.**_

Blue emergency lights flash in a continuum on the street below. They barely reach the second floor window of the flat. Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard has let us in, once he heard what was going on. Didn't take long before he called in the forensic team.

A whole family, poisoned it would seem, slumped over the dinner table. The woman is still wearing a paper crown from a Christmas cracker. The telly is still on, the turkey is both burnt and cold by now, the presents under the bright neon coloured tree are still wrapped.

Sherlock didn't skip a beat, he paced around the table, sniffed the food plates and wine glasses, quickly checked the other rooms. He came back as the inspector finished calling his men to the scene.

'Go on, Sherlock, you've got some explaining to do.'

 _ **.**_

'It can't be!' I protest for the sake of reason.

Lestrade looks over from me to Sherlock. The inspector too can spot that unabashed glee in the younger man's face. By the time Lestrade looks back at me, there's some sadness in his features.

Sherlock believes it, so Lestrade can't quite deny that impossible chance now, that a dead man has risen.

But Jim Moriarty was dead! _So was the main witness._ If Sherlock came back, why couldn't Moriarty? Anyway, there never was a body, a burial; even psychopaths must have family somewhere who once loved them, right?

My head is spinning, my knees feel weak under my own weight. _Can it be he's back?_

The writings on the wall seem to indicate so. I mean, on the window. For me, for Sherlock, for London to spot. An arrogant, defying comeback.

Where has he been hiding, then? This unearthly ghost, a shadow of pure evil?

Why return now, to haunt us again, to chase and prey on Sherlock Holmes? I have no doubt he intends to do just that. The two geniuses complement each other in the opposite extremes they stand for. One defends life and avenges death, the other created the very puzzles that Sherlock misses so much. They could have been the best of companions, in a purely amoral parallel universe. Perhaps even in this one if I hadn't intervened in time, and shown Sherlock who he really is, how destruction and misery go against every fibre of his being. Yet they allure him, it's undeniable. They give him that spark of life my dull morals' world never could.

I sigh and look away.

Of all the things I could have done or said, I didn't expect this to be the one that got Sherlock's immediate attention. He turns to me, inquisitive and calm, as if I was his barometer of emotional response.

'I need to think', he pre-empts before I can ask him what is going on. Surprised too, then. It's comforting to know that; as if I could suspect the two arch enemies could have colluded on a convoluted deceit behind my back.

I still trust Sherlock with my life, I just... don't trust him with the truth.

The inspector grabs the consulting detective by his arm and confronts him: 'Solved this one already? Care to share for the class?'

Sherlock looks at the hand laid on him with the loath he reserves to most physical contact, but nods minutely to the request. 'Cyanide. Inside the roasted bird. You can still smell it in the air, smells like almonds; come on, inspector, you need to actually try harder at your job! It's a sloppy murder weapon. Poison takes time, causes pain and ugly corpses. If she had known that she wouldn't have chosen cyanide, I'm sure. People never do a proper research, not even for their murder-suicides.'

' _She_ , you said _she_. The mother?'

'Second wife, actually, if it makes you feel any better', Sherlock assures coldly. 'The children all have ginger hair, a recessive genetic trait, like the father, but the woman has natural brown hair, dyed a nasty shade of strawberry blond. She's not the natural mother of these children. Besides, she's got polished nails, very unclean underneath. She cooked with those long nails and didn't wash her hands. It won't have been an easy task. She was trying too hard to impress her boyfriend and family. Look at how they sat around the table. The teenage children versus the adults. There's not a Christmas dinner table that doesn't tell a story, inspector, and this one is plain to see.'

'Anderson and the team should be arriving anytime now.' Lestrade glances at his wristwatch.

'I could have saved them the journey. She killed him because she believed he was unfaithful.' As he proclaims this, Sherlock leans over the dead woman and fishes her phone off her pocket, fiddling with it. He smirks. 'Her phone unblocks with her fingerprint, I'm sure she won't mind...' The detective presses the dead woman's finger in the screen as if it were the most normal thing to do. Lestrade shifts on his feet but won't stop him. I look all around and clear my throat. 'There!' the detective declares triumphantly. 'A string of text messages with a friend, about the husband's affair. There are even sultry pictures attached. Show John if you need a second opinion, Lestrade. He's very proud about sex with near strangers.'

I squeal: 'Are you still talking about my girlfriends?'

He rolls his eyes. 'They were hardly that, John, if you didn't know that of those ones that month, one was a lesbian, the other had no national insurance number and a dreadful middle name, or that the last one was too kinky for you.'

I cross my arms in front of me. 'Who says I didn't know about the kinky one?' _I wonder who that one, in particular, was?_

He sighs dramatically. 'I do wish you'd stop wasting your time, John. You'll always be a bachelor. It'd be easier on all of us if you just accepted you're barking up the wrong tree.'

 _What does he even mean by that?_

' _Boys!'_ Lestrade's voice is sharp and clear, urging us to leave our differences aside.

I take a deep breath and point out: 'Then this is not Moriarty's doing at all.'

Sherlock snarls. 'Of course it is! Look under the surface, John! He even signed the window! After they were dead, I might add! Possibly helped himself to some mince pies or a present from under the tree!'

'What do you mean?'

'That insidious, disembodied voice, whispering inside the woman's head about the man's infidelity, driving her to madness, to kill her family and herself – that was Moriarty. Those writings on the window pane, he was here, he signed this crime scene; his return is undeniable.'

'How do you know it wasn't all her?' I point at the dead woman. Then I cringe; _a bit more tact next time, John!_

Sherlock sighs as if I'm a nuisance now.

'Because the husband wasn't unfaithful at all. Check his wallet for the bus tickets. His car broke down, by the way, not three days ago, going by the motor oil stain on his jacket's cuff, not three days old, still quite odorous. He's done extra shifts or took on a second job but he didn't tell her. He saw her as high maintenance; dyed hair, fake nails, lashes and tan, there was hardly any original aspect to her appearance. He didn't want her to know of his financial hardships because he thought she might leave him. Hence the secrets.'

'She thought he was having an affair, but he was at work. What about the pictures on her phone?'

'Doctored pictures, from afar. All Jim needed was to plant the seed of doubt. He led her to the jealous murder-suicide, and us here to find out.'

'Jim Moriarty...' I whisper.

Sherlock shrugs. 'Not one of his best crimes, inciting others to do his deeds for him from afar, but we're all a bit rusty here...'

Lestrade is way ahead of me, I realise, as I hear him notice: 'If this is to put on a show for you, Sherlock, to impress you, _to catch your eye_ , then there should be some sort of sick clue left around here for you to follow, or a souvenir left behind as a calling card, in the least! He did that the last time!'

Light-headed, I wonder briefly if Lestrade ever had his own archenemy to contend with.

Sherlock nods, slowly, as if he had thought of all that before and wasn't surprised by the inspector catching up.

'There's something I'm not seeing! Oh, I'm _rusty_! I've missed this, I've missed Jim!'

I shiver, only barely managing to hide my frank reaction. This time Sherlock is not so attuned to me and he misses it altogether.

Greg recalls sharply: 'Last time you had the phone, the pink phone! And he'd call you, using victims of his crimes as voice actors!'

Sherlock hastily pats his pockets and takes out his phone. He seems disappointed when it doesn't register anything out if the ordinary. He imperiously looks at the inspector, who, after a two seconds pause, actually fishes out his own phone and hands it to Sherlock. The dark haired detective checks it quickly and gives it back, before silently demanding mine with an open hand.

I go through the strange routine as if in a dreamlike state. Take my phone. Hand it over. Sherlock zooms in on it at once.

His grey-green eyes grow wide as he checks it. What he finds he won't tell me, he just contorts himself in a violent move as he throws the electronic device against the wall, across the room. Greg and I are dumbstruck, flinching as it shatters into several parts.

'My phone!' I whisper, incredulous.

'Power off yours', Sherlock demands acidly to Greg. 'Any further messages should come directly to me.'

'That was my phone!' I protest feebly, staring at the debris.

Greg powers off his phone, after a quick glance around at the crime scene. On the street below we can hear the arrival of the first forensics and the officers securing the perimeter with police take. Collectedly, Greg states: 'I'm going to take some time off work, Sherlock. We are going to help you with this, do you hear me? You aren't alone in this.'

Sherlock only responds curtly: 'I might need you on the job. Meanwhile, Baker Street. Now.' And he walks off, taking the lead.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_

* * *

 _2nd A/N: If there needs to be a time scale, it's post-Mary, and pre- whatever episodes of S4 I don't revisit much. Rosie will be taken to safety and her dad will risk his life more than a father should (hence why I don't usually adopt this time frame). Based mostly on S1 and 2, and canon. That is... I think... I haven't quite written it yet. Hm... Oh, and "chapter" 150? Goodness! How did I get here? It's more than halfway through! -csf_


	151. Chapter 151

_A/N: It's starting to look like 9 chapters altogether. And I still don't seem to know how my writing ...happens._

 _Happy New Year, everyone. -csf_

* * *

 _ **2nd.**_

'John?'

Sherlock seems to notice me all of a sudden. We've arrived at Baker Street a tea pot ago, and the three of us sit in gloomy silence, shocked by the apparent return of the consulting criminal.

Well, not all of us are gloomy. Sherlock is almost vibrant with contained energy. He's alive, buzzing and maniacal, under a proud, cold and detached façade. If anything is raining on his parade right now, is that Jim Moriarty is two steps ahead of him in this game of cat and mouse.

Deep down, I guess I always knew it was a matter of time. Whether this reborn Moriarty is a ghost, a vivid fan's impersonation, or the next in the succession line of the spider's web's remnants; it's all the same to me. A cold, damp darkness has fallen over London.

I look over at the detective. We cross gazes, he seems thoughtful now. Almost kind. 'Tell me what you make of this, John.'

What is it? A test? How the ordinary man would approach the case?

I shake my head with sorrow. 'Senseless destruction. Horror. Your _friend_ has been busy, if it indeed is him.'

Sherlock presses his lips thin. 'It is. I can feel it in my bones. He's playing with people's lives, he's _bored_.' Goodness, there's actual elation palpable in the detective's voice.

I sigh, tired in advance. 'Why that flat, those people? Can you tell me that, Sherlock? Because they lived on my way home from the supermarket? Was I supposed to get you?'

'I assume so. You are a creature if habits. Jim is telling us that much. That he still _knows_ us.'

The doorbell rings, downstairs. Poor inspector Lestrade sees us locked in conversation and, inefficient communicators as we may be, he doesn't want to break our thread. He offers to go to the door himself.

I try hard to swallow around that lump of anger lodged in my throat. A murderer's choice feebly justified by my routines. 'Okay, I accept that. This street, then. Why this particular flat, this particular couple?' I insist.

The glow in his eye tells me Sherlock has thought if this. 'Jim is a psychopath, John. He likes to toy with people's emotions as if they were puzzles or puppets on a string. See what makes them tick, for his own personal satisfaction, or because he can't experience many emotions of his own – certainly not love, valour or shame – and deep down he yearns to understand them.'

'He created fake evidence of the husband's infidelity, and he as good as planted the weapon of choice in her hands. Why her?'

Sherlock tilts his head. 'Because he assumed she'd break at some point. He knew enough of her for that.'

I nod. 'Not every wronged wife will murder her husband, his family, and herself out of guilt. A whole family wasted.' I shake my head. 'It's too neat, too tight, no witnesses, no clues left behind except the staged ones. There must have been a connection between them, however thin. Jim might just be off his game, if indeed it is him.'

'We can certainly hope', the detective offers me, but not as a true reflection of his beliefs on the case.

 _Sherlock is already identifying more with him than with us._

I can hear the detective inspector coming up the stairs with another visitor.

'And, Sherlock?'

'Yes?'

'Don't go jumping off roofs, please.' I trail away to the kitchen without looking back at my shocked friend.

'Sherlock, I came as soon as I heard of it.' I turn as I recognise Molly Hooper. She giggles nervously and overthinks her words. 'Couldn't come any sooner, right? And you guessed as much because you're a detective.' She grimaces under her faltering smile. 'You can probably tell me what I had for lunch yesterday. I mean, you always can—'

'Bart's cafeteria's vegetable lasagne, it was a Tuesday, after all', cuts in the super detective.

'—it's not all that spectacular... What?' She looks up, straight into his eyes, and blinks.

I try to help. 'I keep telling you, Sherlock, the novelty wears off.' And a squeeze my face into a smile.

Molly shakes her head, almost like a nervous twitch. 'I had the curry, Sherlock. Here!' she picks up her cardigan's sleeve. 'It even spilled on me!'

We both look at Sherlock in amazement. _He's off his game._

Greg coughs to clear his throat, loudly enough to interrupt us. 'John, Molly's here to help with Rosie, as we talked.'

That snaps me out of it at once. 'Yes, sure. Thanks. Will you have her, Molly?'

She nods, firmly. 'If you think it's best.'

'She'll be safer with you, and... Sherlock needs me. Won't be for long. Hopefully one day she'll understand why her father...' I gulp down that hard lump back on my throat '...exiled her to keep her safe.'

Molly lays a gentle hand on my arm. 'She'll be proud of you, John.'

'And you were the only one, Molly', I force on a brave smile, 'who ever forced the mastermind criminal to snuggle up on the sofa with you and the cat to watch romcoms. You are a force of nature by right, Molly Hooper.'

She giggles, and glances at the iconic silhouette of the detective poised by the window, overlooking the street. As if to make sure Sherlock heard the nice words the plain doctor said. Sherlock doesn't react, however.

'Come. We'll take a cab to pick up Rosie from nursery', I direct, grabbing Rosie's brightly coloured overnight bag.

'John!' Sherlock calls us, imperiously. We halt and turn. He too turns and states: 'Mycroft sent a car, it's safe to take it. Molly, you can keep it to go as far away from us as you can. John, I need you back here ASAP, after you're done with your personal life.'

 _Great!_ – despite all the kind resources made available, he's treating my child as a nuisance. I sigh angrily at a Watson pattern forming, but can't really argue back with my family's protector.

And I know that Sherlock truly loves Rosie, and not only as deep down as that. They are partners in crime, those two, and my Rosie has got Sherlock wrapped around her finger, much like his mother ever did.

Sherlock is showing me how I must act, if I really want to help him. Keep my emotions under check, rationalize my fears, and fight back the ghost.

I swallow dry and follow Molly down the stairs.

 _ **.**_

By the time of my return to Baker Street's 221B, all the flat is eerily quiet. The lights are on, filling the space with a warm glow that the logs burning on the fireplace competes with, casting dancing shadows on the rug. I slow down coming up those wooden steps. If any sight could momentarily lift the weight on my heart it is this, of a homely 221B. But where's Sherlock? Is he even at home? I vow to find that detective and not lose him from my sight until the runaway demon is caught and sent back.

I'm crossing the threshold when a sharp, rasping minor major seventh chord nastily pierces the silence. I jump and turn, my heart racing, about to leap off my chest.

Sherlock is standing at the kitchen's glass doors, holding his violin to his chin.

'You're late', he drawls.

I blink. _What?_

'Why the soundtrack of Psycho?'

'Why the gun?'

I grump and put my handgun back in my belt. 'You know damn well why the gun. There's a psychopath after us.'

Sherlock shrugs, indifferent. 'After me, in any case', he concludes some muted objection. 'I thought you'd appreciate the cultural reference.'

I swallow a smirk. 'Testing my reflexes? How did I do?'

He drawls again: 'Marvellously, John, as always.' I smile proudly until he adds: 'But you failed to secure the perimeter before entering. Bang, bang – and you're dead.' I glower at him. 'Or should I say—' Once more he abuses that dissonant, tension building chord on his violin, as we walks off to his bedroom.

I won't let him put me down so easily. 'I got us some food, Sherlock.'

'Have you checked it's not poisoned?' he asks at the end of the corridor.

I huff. 'It will be only as much as I want to. I'm cooking tonight.'

He bangs his bedroom door shut.

 _What the hell is wrong with him? Is he sulking?_

I put the groceries on the kitchen table when I spot Sherlock's phone. Unlocked. Just a small window of opportunity, abandoned at my grasp, to glimpse into the genius child's world.

I pick it up and pull up the open tabs. He's just received a bunch of pictures. Of me. At the supermarket. At the dairy aisle. At the till. Heading back with these very same carrier bags.

God, I hope this anonymous sender is Mycroft and not Jim.

Well, for _one_ , a pasta dinner is no longer a surprise for Sherlock. For _two_ , he cheated as he stood by the door with his ominous violin.

I frown and zoom in on the picture at the dairy aisle. There's a reflection at the glass door of the refrigerators. Blurry, but undeniable, it's the dead consulting criminal that smiles as he holds up a camera phone my way.

 _Gosh, how did I miss that?_

No wonder Sherlock is acting paranoid.

Jim could have killed me.

More likely a doppelganger of the late Jim, but deadly all the same if clearly sent by the bad guys.

I look over my shoulder at the empty living room. It feels cold and damp now, full of invisible eyes spying on me.

 _I don't care._ They can't frighten me that easily. _I hope you're watching._ Here's how you make a great pasta dish. Watch and learn, ghost!

I set my shoulders and prepare to cook as if I was going to battle.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	152. Chapter 152

_A/N: Have been writing this as one long piece and now the story breaks don't feel right, whatever I do._ _-csf_

* * *

 _ **3rd.**_

'So, I was compromised. I was followed around at the supermarket, then on my way home. Why not attack me then?'

The detective across the kitchen table helps himself to a second dose of our meal. That's very unlike the Sherlock I know. Should I ask for the secret handshake, check if this emotional picky eater is really my best friend?

'He's taunting me, John. Grabbing you then would have been just too easy. He wants to build the tension, making it unbearable for me. You are annoying us both deeply', he huffs, 'by making it too easy.'

My turn to huff. 'I can make a nice target too, you know. I've been a POW before.'

Sherlock's fork slips off his fingers, crashing on his plate with a loud clatter. I look up. _Shouldn't have said that, uh?_ He's pale as a ghost.

I put down my cutlery. 'I was followed back to Baker Street. I let you down.'

He resumes his meal, albeit slower. 'Nonsense, John. 221B is still perfectly safe. Besides, what new information would Moriarty gather from your coming home?'

'I dunno, still don't like it', I mutter.

'Next time just demand they give you a hand carrying the groceries', Sherlock suggests.

I chuckle, and so does he.

'No one watched you prep the meal, 221B is safe ground', my friend practically reads my mind. He favours another mouthful before saying as he chews: 'Although if that was the competitive advantage of this dish over your usual ones, I'll gladly watch you menacingly, with a gun pointed at you, from the armchair, from here on out.'

'Glad you're enjoying it. If push comes to shove, we might have to go on the run, and then we won't have very many hot meals.'

'Would you join me, John?' he asks casually, just a tinge of concern under the steady baritone of his voice.

I smirk. 'You know you wouldn't be able to shake me off, mate.'

He hums to his plate; a convincing portrait of contained emotion in a gentlemanly fashion. Anyway, humming in Sherlock is always a good sign. He'll be purring, in the next level of inscrutability of his.

I risk a deeper question at last.

'So, is _he_ dead?' I ask darkly, staring at the detective. He seems guarded, reserved; holding back on me once again.

Sherlock almost doesn't have to answer. I can feel the distrust building up between us.

I still wait on that answer. I want to hear this out loud, no matter how much it makes the Baker Street genius squirm.

'I-I don't know.'

 _Great performance, mate!_ I don't buy it. I turn my face away, scoffing under my breath. Yes, all the gas taps are off. There's a mountain of pots and pans to wash.

'Only two people were on that rooftop. You should know how many came out alive!' I protest to the dirty stove.

I hear Sherlock's icy words: 'I faked my death, John. You have sworn me dead. What kept Jim—'

Turning abruptly I shout: _'Don't – call – him – Jim!'_

I'm out of breath. Hurt, anger, rushing through me in a whirlwind of emotions. I lower my voice to an ominous whisper. 'Don't call him "Jim" like an old mate. He was a despicable snake. Look at what he did to you, he wasn't your pal! Look at what _he did to me!_ ' I stop short, light-headed. Been breathing too fast. _Get a grip, captain Watson!_

How did it all go south so quickly?

Sherlock ignores my treasonous body reactions and rectifies at my request: 'Moriarty could have faked his death too, I suppose. He was a great actor, had access to good props... John, it felt _real_. The loud sound of the shot rang in my ears, and woke me up at night for a long time. The eyes, their vacant, still expression. I suppose some drugs can cause near body paralysis and mimic a death stare, and imperceptible breathing.' Sherlock is tracing patterns with his fingertip on the marred surface of the table, seemingly a little lost. 'The blood was real. It smelled of blood. Warm blood.' I can see him repressing a shiver.

 _It was real for Sherlock in any case._

Getting up from my awkward seat across the table, I come near my friend who now faces the small window, running restless fingers through his hair. I've hardly ever seen him so lost of control, externalizing his anguish so apparently. I'd wager it's not about Jim, the old pal from the dark side. This is about me, doubting Sherlock after all he's been through while he was away.

I touch my friend's shoulder and watch him recoil reflexively. 'I'm sorry I doubted you. I'm... I'm terrified, Sherlock.'

He turns his gaze to me, slowly. Inquisitive, curious, controlled. Young, in those green hues that could never age or be marred by life.

'I know', he tells me. As good as an admission that he too feels the same, and that he forgives my doubts for he too has doubted his recollection of those fatidic moments at Bart's rooftop. Replayed them over and over again in his head, searching for the con that fixed the game.

I smirk sadly. 'Think we can go at this differently this time around?'

A tiny smile erupts at his lips, but nonetheless he lectures me some more, for he is Sherlock Holmes.

'My dearest John, I was hoping this time we could face Moriarty – or whoever he is – together. I can see the usefulness of having... _a witness_.'

I punch his arm at that.

 _The unreformed git._

'Eat up, there's no dessert, I didn't make one because I didn't know you were in an eating mood tonight.'

He smirks at that.

'You starve me, John. I'm flesh and bones, according to Mrs Hudson.'

I'm not his cook. 'I'll get you an apple, maybe?'

'Not a chance!' He raises an imperious brow, before I can understand what triggered him now. 'An apple a day keeps _the doctor_ away!' he quotes.

'An apple a day keeps _anyone_ away, if you throw it hard enough', I point out, knowingly.

Sherlock's chuckles are the very thing that can lift the weight off my heart.

 _ **.**_

Morning is breaking over a cold, damp London. I snuggle inside my black jacket and stuff my stiff fingers deeper inside my lukewarm pockets. By my side, Sherlock's iconic long coat flaps behind his every long stride across this park. Cold doesn't quite seem to affect him. Cold sees those sharp cheekbones and those mercurial eyes and turns away, outdone.

If Sherlock was a nice company yesterday at dinner time, today I haven't yet extracted a word of him, but I had plenty of grunts to contend with.

He finally halts his fast pace race to nowhere and hails a cab for us.

Glancing over my shoulder to do a sweep of the perimeter for enemies, and finding no obvious one, I enter the cab too, not without first checking out the driver.

Sherlock tells the cabbie where to take us.

'Scotland Yard? Why are we going there, Sherlock? Are you going for Lestrade's official help?'

The consulting detective votes down that suggestion with an eloquent frown.

'I'm going to play the game. My way, John.'

'What do you possibly mean?'

'Moriarty has the next move, but I'll place myself one step ahead, waiting for him. I like my crime scenes as fresh as they get, John!'

I think a while. 'So you assume he'll create a case that gets directed to Greg, so you can pick it up?'

'I'm sure he will. He craves my attention. He won't waste a crime he's not sure I'll spot. There's no pink phone this time, John. He needs to leave me a trail, something! My trail is the detective inspector who defended my name after he smeared it that last time.'

I glance out of the moving cab.

'It's not even certain that it's good old Jim, you know.'

'Oh, don't be such a spoilsport!' he beckons me. As I face him, he's smiling openly. A joke then. Right.

The cab halts. Sherlock exits. I pay the genuine cabbie. As I'm exiting too, Greg is rushing towards us.

'Sherlock! Finally! You didn't respond to any of my texts! I was worried, mate!'

I frown. I'm phoneless (Sherlock destroyed my phone) and Sherlock is laying down his rules, purposefully ignoring his phone (possibly ignoring Mycroft's carrying on about witness protection and microchips too).

'Greg, what happened?' I ask first.

'No time. Crime scene. You'll want in on this one, Sherlock! It's a weird one, as per your demand.' The inspector fakes a theatrical bow.

Sherlock ignores the gimmick, as he's already smiling delightedly.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	153. Chapter 153

_A/N: I was out in the woods behind a castle when I wrote part of it. Got chilled to the bone. -csf_

* * *

 _ **4**_ _ **th**_ _ **.**_

DI Greg Lestrade is driving us top speed under blue lights, across London.

'Don't get your hopes up just yet', I confide to the exhilarated detective sprawled across the backseat. He's an odd mixture of tantalising energy and desolate impatience.

'You've met Moriarty, John.' _You can say that again, Sherlock, we some steaming fun time poolside._ 'He's a true psychopath. He's looking for recognition, admiration. He wouldn't... bore us.'

I roll my eyes at the echoes of the sociopathic language that my best friend has long loved to adopt when trying to impress an audience, and deflect from his insecurities.

I glance at Greg. His face is soured by what he's heard. The old act still pays, I gather.

'This crime scene', I start again. 'It's got clues for us. To keep you busy.'

'I should expect so', Sherlock deflects.

'No matter if it really is Moriarty, raised from the dead, or if this is a copycat.'

'Yes, John. I'm with you so far', he adds in mockery.

'And if we follow these leads, take this case, there's no turning back. He has engaged us in his mad word of death puzzles. Others will come. Just like in the old days.'

'John...' He looks at me with heavy green eyes. 'I don't really expect we had much of a choice anyway. Psychopaths can be highly persuasive, you know.'

I nod, and set my shoulders, military-like. Ready for battle. I look at my taller friend under a heavy brow, using the rear view mirror at my side. 'Sherlock', I call sternly, 'promise you won't... leave me.' My voice breaks at those final words, those most important words. Greg takes his eyes off the road for just a second, then grasps the wheel tighter.

 _Don't do it, please_. I don't ask Sherlock to stay, I realise belatedly. I ask him to contradict his instinct of solitary pursuit. We're stronger as a team. _I'd go to the end of the world with him, if he'd take me._

Sherlock presses his lips thin, and I know he has heard me, and noted my chosen words, but he evades an answer. That would have amounted to a promise he'd break to protect me, and he won't break promises. My most amoral friend won't break a promise, paradoxically.

But _he's wrong_ ; it's not all on his shoulders. I'll help him carry this burden, better than I did the time before. I won't let the two antagonist masterminds be the only ones dictating the action this time.

 _ **.**_

One of the most luxurious well-established hotels in central London. Top floor. Rented out on a semi-permanent basis to the son of a top governmental figure. As he lets us in, the overly flattering concierge shadowing us implies the hotel's VIP client (or tenant) chose the carpets and upholstery during the last rooms renovation; he's been here that long and is expected to stay.

What the client wouldn't have chosen is the added dead body.

Discretion is required. Class beyond my financial means is clear from the bland wall art and the neatly pressed cotton napkins at the polished breakfast cart wheeled halfway in the room. The low level English speaking worker that was serving breakfast was apparently the only one who remembered "999" is for the emergency services. The concierge nearly snarls at the employee before unctuously offering help once more, as he already exits the room.

I'm severely under-dressed for this pantomime. I cross my arms and let Sherlock and Greg get on with it.

Anyway, I don't see traces of warranted criminal masterminds here, apart from the striking narcissism. Could there possibly be a picture frame that doesn't feature prominently or exclusively the suspect-in-wait, in an array of praise-worthy staged situations?

The minister's son is tucking in on his continental breakfast and a stiff drink, across the room from the dead body.

'Can we get that _thing_ removed and the carpets washed and pressed – or whatever you do to carpets...' He seems lost for a moment, wondering what one does with a bloody carpet.

The large room still smells of acrid gunpowder despite the open window with a view to a small park outside. Greg nods his request at me and I zoom in on the body, but it's out of habit that I check for a pulse. A nasty head wound and I know this poor man is out of reach of medicine's miracles.

'The body is still warm, no _rigor mortis_. Yeah, he's been dead for the past half-hour, I'd say, maybe less with the cold outside air cooling him. Obvious gunshot wound. No other signs of trauma. No defensive wounds visible. Small calibre ammunition, most likely a compact automatic. He could have brought it in himself?' I wonder.

Greg patiently takes up his notepad and pen, luring answers out of the rapidly drunken man. Sherlock is standing at parade's rest by my side, growing more and more impatient by the minute.

 _Not as much fun as he expected, huh?_

'I don't know how he died!' shouts the moronic witness.

'I asked his name', the inspector reminds drily.

'Why would I kill him?' the man's voice is elevated and he grabs his drink and gulps it down in one go. 'You can't prove it, you know. You can't accuse me without a tight case, because of my father. You can't even question me at your slum station! I'm only answering you because I'm generous!'

I feel bad for the patient detective inspector.

Sherlock sighs loudly, attracting the attention in the room. 'Why would you kill him?' The consulting genius smirks and answers, 'Because he was your lover.'

'Press— Prosspes— Nonsense!'

'The word you were looking for is "preposterous" and it certainly is not. I take it your father would frown on the liaison and your lover threatened to divulge your affair to your father. Blackmail might have been attempted. It would certainly help explain Moriarty's interest in this case. Two lovers, two crimes, and whose crime tops it all? But let's return to the recent events. You two quarreled. You got the gun out and shot him. There's your mistake. The gun proves premeditation.'

Lestrade cuts in: 'We don't have the gun, Sherlock.'

Sighing again, the genius methodically raises one sleeve, rolling it up, under all our confused gazes. Like a magician about to perform an act right before our very eyes. Finally he dives his bare arm on the nearby fish tank, scooping out from the bottom a wet gun, waterlogged.

'You can't prove my gun did it!' the idiot yells, drunkenly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Striations on the fatal bullet. Ever heard of those? Been around for ages!'

'There's no bullet on the body!' he keeps choosing to yell at us. Also, he smiles triumphantly, ahead of his win.

I have no doubt he's guilty. I look on over to DI Lestrade. He's sure too, but helpless. Any other lowlife Greg would have booked in on less, but here he needs to avoid some political scandal, unless he's sure the case will hold.

Greg seems to know this is not the time to piss off Mycroft Holmes, the high-spheres incident cleaner and problem solver, not when Mycroft's baby brother is facing the return of his nemesis.

The DI really needs a tight case. So I give him this one for free. I borrow his pen from his hand, and kneel by the body to reanalyse the wound, scavenging about with the instrument. 'It's a pulp of shattered bone and brain matter, can't see a bullet in here.' The inspector generously waves me to keep the pen. He's probably got others.

The suspect opens his arms, taunting us. 'Want to frisk me?' he eyes us all in challenge. 'Can the good looking one do the frisking?'

He's definitely eyeing the consulting detective, it's always Sherlock who attracts the mad ones.

'No need', Sherlock drawls. He calmly demands: 'John, get me some change.'

I look up from my squatting position near the body.

'Well?' he hurries me up. 'You don't seriously expect me to have change in my pockets?'

 _What a plebeian notion, Sherlock._ 'I don't expect you to have any money at all. I always pay the cabbies.'

'John', he reproaches me, impatient.

I sigh and hand him a handful of loose change, paper clips, a triple A battery and a bandage roll (I keep first aid supplies in every pocket, it pays to do so). Sherlock selects one coin and pockets the rest – he's a secret kleptomaniac, and a successful one at that – before showing us the selected silver coin. He goes to the open window sill, and plays with its in his long fingers, catching the sun in its surface.

'Sherlock, what—'

Sherlock halts us briskly with a quick gesture. He lays down the coin and steps back.

There, before our eyes, a small magpie comes to the edge of the sill. The bird eyes the shiny coin, then us. I blink. Greg shuffles his stance, bewildered. Sherlock glances angrily at him. The thieving magpie takes up the distraction to grab the coin with its beak and takes off in a magnificent runaway flight.

Sherlock smiles triumphantly. 'A trained magpie! She took the bullet!'

Greg quips some pitiful throaty noise as the bird flies off.

Sherlock and I glance at each other, before we dash off in a run from the hotel room, to give chase to a feathered thief.

 _ **.**_

I feed the poor caged magpie a piece of bread through the thin bars. She looks at it with disdain and eyes my watch instead. It must have caught the reflected light from the ceiling, here at Greg Lestrade's office. I frown on her set criminal ways.

'John, stop playing with the bird!' Sherlock snaps, twirling a black marker pen in the air, and catching it from behind his back, and repeating it all over again, like a trained circus act.

I chuckle. 'You're just upset she nicked you as you tried to grab her.'

'She did the same to you.'

I look at my hand, two plasters littering the back of it. 'Yeah...' I say without bite. 'Are you saying that Moriarty trained this magpie to steal shiny things out of the room, in advance of the murder bullet?'

Sherlock blinks, before stating flatly: 'Yes. However improbable it sounds. In fairness, he worked with the bird's natural instinct, and created a repeat expose pattern to familiarise the magpie with rewards upon the sight of the open hotel window.'

I raise my brows, with a newfound respect for the abject criminal mastermind. It's almost... childishly innocent.

'How long—'

'He has had plenty of time, John', Sherlock cuts me off.

'The jerk from the hotel suite, he colluded with Moriarty to teach the magpie? Then he's seen Moriarty? He can tell us if it really is the late Jim Moriarty?'

'He's being asked that as we speak. The British government... has taken personal interest. Bigger interest now he's heard that the man was using the institution to hinder a murder charge. Mycroft does not take that kindly. He feels overworked as it is without extra blunders making his behind-the-scenes workings harder.'

'And Lestrade's case?'

'It's airtight, as requested. The public won't hear much of it, I expect. Open and shut, as they say.'

I look on the bird cage sadly. 'When can we free her?'

'She's an accomplice of a coldblooded murderer, John. So, naturally, we'll free her as soon as we get to Baker Street.'

I grin, content. _That's my Sherlock._

The office's glass door opens and in comes the mighty elder Holmes sibling, idly swinging his umbrella. Behind him he's left a trail of awestruck and demure silence from the usually bustling Yard officers.

'Mycroft', I acknowledge. Sherlock huffs contemptuously; mostly out of habit, I assume.

'When you are done playing with the detective inspector's name plaque on his desk...' Mycroft hints, in favour of a private word with his brother.

I glance at Greg's name; it's now got an extra horizontal line on the first letter T in the capitalised title of "detective inspector". _When did Sherlock—?_

The younger Holmes is already following Mycroft out of the room. They take their conversation next door, to another glass office, that happens to be vacant. I can see their terse stances, but I can't make out any of the words in their seemingly hummed conversation.

Sherlock is flippant, Mycroft is rapidly turning an angry shade of red in the face and neck. I assume this is about witness protection, Baker Street and a full body armour suit. At some point, Mycroft even points at me, and that's the only time in the whole one-sided argument that Sherlock loses his temper, snarling in some scathing remark. Mycroft's cold eyes are fiery as he answers curtly and walks out of the office, bypassing the rightful commissioner whose office space got used and who knew better than to interrupt the two Holmes brothers. Sherlock stiffly comes out too, gives the waiting commissioner a forced smile, that comes out silly, and returns my way.

'So, how's your brother?' I start.

'Same old, you know. He hired a personal trainer to help him with his diet and now he's running away from the man. Which in itself works wonders for the diet.'

Right, we're _not_ talking about the argument then. 'Hence the little get-together next door', I play along.

Sherlock tucks his hands in his coat pockets.

'Yes, my brother wanted to know where the Yard gets their glazed jam donuts. I expect a major heist on the production factory tonight. Mycroft is not built to keep to a low calories diet.'

'We should go get some, then, for ourselves, before tonight.'

Sherlock hums. 'Yes, before London goes donuts-dry. I believe today Lestrade might have earned some too.'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	154. Chapter 154

_A/N: Well, as it turned out, I was sort of pushed into it, by the forces of narrative structure and the invisible plead sent to me; so I put it all in one chapter. I'm not entirely happy with it, but here we go. -csf_

* * *

 _ **5**_ _ **th**_ _ **.**_

'How's Rosie?'

I turn in my armchair, grabbing on to my drink, as I bend to see who has just come in to 221B. Greg Lestrade, and he's not a bad investigator at all. He's just spotted the drawing in my hand.

'She's alright. Molly's babysitting for me, far away, somewhere safe. Hm... here's a drawing they sent me through special post.'

I show the kind inspector the drawing. He squints at once, picking it up.

'Are those graves?'

 _What?_ 'No!'

'So that's not a dead body in a bag?'

'Of course it is! Those are the morgue's drawers, that's where Molly works. I forbade Sherlock to take Rosie grave digging before she's a teenager, in the least!'

The inspector tilts his head eyeing the page. 'If you're sure...'

I yank the drawing off his hands, fold it and put it away in my shirt's breast pocket. 'Well, inspector?'

He raises his hands as if to avoid a confrontation. 'Came to see our boy Sherlock. Is he in?'

'He's in his room, getting dressed. I'll go get him. Help yourself to a donut while you wait.'

'Don't mind if I do!' the inspector grins. 'Wait, John!'

I turn, halfway to the kitchen. 'How is he, John?'

'Delighted, bored, miffed, curious – all in one. He's that old Sherlock, vibrant and alive, from the old days, as he tries to piece together every little evidence, looking for a trail of crumbles to follow.'

'He's happy?' the DI translates worriedly. I nod.

'Having the time of his life. Puzzles, tailor-made for him by a lunatic psychopath with a twisted view of the world? What's there not to like? Death doesn't turn Sherlock off, with the gore of the man with his brain blown off or the woman poisoned by her own meal at the dinner table. Sherlock only sees the puzzles and in his mental tally, he's winning so far. Like I say, Sherlock is delighted by this attention he's being showered.'

Greg's mouth is slightly open but no sound comes from it. He seems shocked. I shrug. _We all love Sherlock just the way he is._ 'I'll go call him, see if he's finished his shower.'

The inspector nods and helps himself to the rest of my drink, at hand.

I go knock on Sherlock's bedroom door. 'Greg's here, care to come out and play?' I call out.

The door clicks and recedes as a dignified tall detective comes to open it, his hair still moist and smelling of fragrant shampoo.

'Did he bring me a new case?'

'What?' I'm taken by surprise.

'I asked if Lestrade brought me a case. I solved the last one in record time. I've earned a new case.'

I gulp. 'From Lestrade or from Moriarty?'

'The latter, obviously, John. Greg is too nice to go around delighting me with a string of murders. He just doesn't have what it takes to be a serial murderer, much in the least an interesting one. No, I'm afraid Lestrade can only provide me with second-hand murders, not craft them.'

'Good', I say, as the only thing I still know for sure. 'Don't think he's got a case, do come to the living room to find out in any case.'

Sherlock shrugs, in no particular hurry. 'Be there when I can, John.' And he shuts the door on me.

 _He's up to no good._

I return to the living room, feeling worried. Is Sherlock bored of us? Is the memory of Moriarty so much more enticing than his living friends?

I find Greg looking out of the window behind Sherlock's armchair. His countenance is heavy as he watches the street.

I clear my throat. 'How many of them, watching us?'

Greg's brown eyes fix on me instead. 'You know, then?'

'I guessed. There's got to be – what? – three different factions out there, all with their eyes on us? Your mates from the Yard, Mycroft's spooks and the bad guys. Give or take a few other bad guys who customarily have their eyes on us as the big prize of their careers, a few freelance journalists waiting for a stroke of luck towards their next news headline, and a baseline of fans with selfie-sticks and cameras.'

Greg lets go of our curtain. 'You know what they say; you're never alone, John.'

'It might just be what is keeping Moriarty from blowing us all up with a bomb, for instance. Although Sherlock would consider that against the most basic fair play.'

'And you, John? How are you holding up?' The inspector genuinely worries.

'I'm getting used to it. Feels like the old days.'

'That's what I'm worrying about, we both know how those ended. Look, John—'

I interrupt firmly: 'I'm alright, I keep telling you.'

He nods.

Finally we hear Sherlock making his way out from his bedroom.

'Who's died, detective inspector?' The younger man drawls.

Greg stiffens. 'No one yet.'

'I wish my team would try harder. Go away, inspector, and don't come back until someone has died.'

I cut in, amused, 'Sherlock?'

He faces me, intense, exhilarated. 'There's a case, out there, John, we just don't know about it yet. Vital clues are being lost as we speak! John, I've told you – I like my crime scenes fresh!'

Sherlock and I look on to Greg. He's probably had enough for he actually nods and leaves us, on his way back to the Yard, not without some relief in his features.

Sherlock takes one glance at me and deduces: 'I see you cancelled your date with the scathingly clad brunette from the surgery. One would think coming from a medical background, a woman working as a nurse would know about the dangers of hypothermia.'

 _What?_ 'Of course we rain-checked our date. You've got a zombie madman after you!'

He hums, amused. 'The only women you've been feeling are dead on a crime scene, John. I wish you would accept that your dating days are done and move on. It's not particularly becoming on a widower either.'

I raise one warning finger. 'Don't bring her up, Sherlock.' _Mary. I miss her enough without bringing her up in this conversation._

Praise the gods, Sherlock complies with my most important request. It doesn't keep him from lamenting dramatically, as he encircles me:

'Still looking for love, are we?'

Aggravated now, I protest: 'And the other day you said I was barking up the wrong tree. What the hell did you even mean?'

Sherlock diverges easily. 'You've got affection and admiration from your daughter. Isn't that enough? What are you missing that Rosie can't give you?'

I smirk and cross my arms. 'In order to fully answer that I'd have to sit you down and we'd need to have a talk, starting with the birds and the bees, Sherlock.'

'I know all about bees, John.'

'My point exactly. Leave the birds to me.'

He takes easy offense to my tone. 'Too bad Moriarty isn't some floozy, you'd make haste at research then!'

I deadpan. 'To think I could be on a date with a brunette right now.'

He looks curiously at me and pretends easy offense.

'I haven't left the room, John.'

'Are you possibly that jealous of my attention?' I protest.

'Always, John. I'm too selfish to share.'

'You are nuts.' I cross my arms in front of me.

'Takes one to know one, John!'

 _ **.**_

Sherlock gets his wish granted for a crime that would rapture his interest soon enough. Just not quite the way any of us expected.

It comes in the post the next morning. _The letter._

 _Are you paying attention?_ \- it asks directly at the Baker Street's consulting detective.

The same letter I'm still holding in my trembling fingers.

I suppose it was bound to happen. With all of Baker Street's phones disconnected, an old resource like the postal services is as good as any to send out a ransom note – if indeed my daughter is still alive.

Sherlock is livid. As if this horrid development broke the rules of their insane game. Only it doesn't; Jim Moriarty has always struck Sherlock right where hides his feelings - his heart.

And I'm usually the collateral damage.

 _ **.**_

'That escalated fast', Mycroft comments, in a neutral tone of voice, to his brother, as he intently swings and analyses his faithful umbrella. He popped up as quick as lightning. Sherlock wouldn't spare one resource to solve this crude kidnap.

It pretty much goes over my head, almost in a literal fashion too, as I'm both too distracted by my worry over Rosie (and Molly) and hunched up to a tight (stressed) ball in my armchair.

Earlier Sherlock threatened to cuff me to a piece of furniture, after I yelled profanities and trashed everything on top of the living room's table; luckily, he caught his microscope before it broke to pieces on the floor. I felt like daring him to try to restrain me, and we'd see who ended up with the cuffs. That's when he picked up a picture frame from the rug. The sight of Rosie cooled my temper immediately, with a blanket of shame.

 _You are hardly helping, John! Let Sherlock do his job, as if you were just another client._

All I want to know is where my daughter got taken.

At the time it seemed faultless that I wouldn't be told, for as Sherlock often points out I'm one of the worse liars in London. Add to that the fact that I could be coerced to talk by a highly dangerous non-empathic mastermind murderer on his way to Sherlock Holmes, it was all for the best that I didn't know.

I agreed to it. I don't blame Sherlock now.

I just want these two to tell me where my Rosie is. My Rosamund. Mary really wanted that name. I didn't care much for the matter. So long as Rosie was healthy and happy.

I always do what others want me to do.

Now I lost my daughter. She's out there, helpless, and I'm sat here _doing nothing_. And the award for the worst father of the year goes to—

'John?'

I only recognise I'm being called when Sherlock's steady hand falls on my shoulder. I look around and realise Mycroft is gone, without saying goodbye. Or perhaps he did. I don't know.

Sherlock squats in front of my armchair, trying to look me in the eye. Not knowing what to say, he just squeezes my shoulder.

'I have sent out heavily armed squad that would have made you proud, John, to check on Molly and Rosie at their safe house. First of all, we are going to verify that they were taken, do you understand that?'

I nod. Feeling the road ahead is too long to travel with a heavily thumping heart.

'Meanwhile, as we wait, I can perhaps cook...' he volunteers with the utmost uncertain tone of voice.

I shake my head. _Don't trouble yourself over me. Keep focused on them, I'm just a distraction to you._

Sherlock is biting his lower lip as he gets back up, running nervous fingers through his thick hair.

 _ **.**_

'Daddy!'

I get up so quickly from the armchair that I sprain my back. Doesn't stop me, though, from squeezing Rosie in the warmest, tightest hug one can give. I hold her in my arms, I can smell the scent of her skin I've known since she was a baby, I pat her silky gold strands of hair that I've braided so many times.

'John, I'm sorry we took us so long to get here.' Molly is here too, I realise just now. Surveying our embrace, and I still won't let go of little Rosie, even though she's starting to squirm impatiently now. Molly wriggles her fingers nervously. 'We were never in danger, John. We were never kidnapped or anything. Jim lied.' She looks up at Sherlock, at her side, to ask for support explaining.

The detective assures me: 'That letter you got was a fake. Meant to destabilise you, break us apart. Moriarty never had Rosie, because he couldn't find her.'

Silently Molly mouths "Moriarty"? She calls him "Jim" too. Everyone calls him "Jim"! _Jim, the friendly neighbourhood psychopath._

Garnering all my control I make a superhuman effort to leg go of my daughter. She runs to my chair, trots on up, pats Sherlock's pet skull, and grabs her box of dolls and dresses from the shelves on the side of the fireplace. Molly kindly helps her down and to the long sofa with her dolls.

I gulp dry and face Sherlock. I'm about to thank him – for recalling Molly to London, for giving me my child back – when he talks first:

'Won't happen again, John. We'll keep Rosie here, under our watchful eye.'

I nod, speechless. I feel suddenly drained and exhausted. Sherlock just smiles at me.

 _We're all home. We have all that matters._

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	155. Chapter 155

_A/N: I've used Moran before, but never to my full liking. This is yet another incarnation. Because even I couldn't bring Moriarty from the dead. -csf_

* * *

 _ **6**_ _ **th**_ _ **.**_

'What happened, Sherlock? One minute we're solving charades with Moriarty and the next my daughter is claimed to be in his despicable hands?'

The man with the violin on his chin for the past two hours – but he hasn't played a single note on it – is looking equally troubled. Finally, at my first question about the case at hand he drops the violin and refocuses his mind more sharply.

He comes to take an eager, edge of the seat, sit at his armchair, facing me in earnest.

'It doesn't fit, John. That fake ransom letter, it was meant to taunt you. No mention of me.'

'Of couse it mentioned you, it was addressed to you, it beared your name on the text!'

He waves his hand dismissively.

'Your daughter. Just your loved one abducted, John. No riddle, no clues – nothing like Moriarty at all!'

'Could it be it's not really him, after all?'

'Of course it can, John! The man is dead! But who is it, then? Who can act flawlessly like Moriarty and suddenly drop the act with something crude and juvenile like a fake ransom note?'

I blink. Call it what you like, Sherlock, now you know it wasn't true, but it broke my heart.

I glance on the direction of the stairs. Mrs Hudson's got Rosie right now. So I could get some sleep, she said. I don't think I can sleep soundly ever again, though. So I came downstairs, still in my sleeping attire, for a glass of water and some muted telly. It didn't take a full minute before Sherlock's bedroom door was opened and he came out here to keep me company.

I can tell Sherlock is starting to look run down by his constant mania-high days, and he would be quite frank about the dark circles under my eyes, the tousled bed hair, and the unusual fact that I came down only in pyjama bottoms, having discarded a sweat soaked t-shirt not long ago.

'You know Moriarty's crew. You chased them all over Europe, Sherlock.'

The detective nods. 'Not just Europe, John.'

'Was there anyone you missed?'

He looks down on his hands, his long violinist fingers.

'Possibly.'

'Who?'

'Moriarty's secret right hand man.' Sherlock looks up, straight at me, his eyes filled with those honest green hues that are so familiar to me alone. 'He was Jim's operations manager in Europe, so to speak. Some say he was as close to Jim as a secret lover, but that would be assuming either man was capable of genuine love. Jim was certainly capable of pursuing desires with passion, but Sebastian Moran... he was reported to be a cruel, sadistic man, who once thrived in the foreign wars of the United Kingdom, before he was dishonourably discharged.'

'A scumbag, you mean', I don't sugar-coat it. I'm a military man myself. I've seen others profit illicitly from the horror and destruction of war.

'Yes, John. Naturally, he now held a nice public office job in the Mediterranean, where his past history was still unknown. He hadn't changed his ways, accumulating wealth unbeknown to his peers, setting elaborate lavish parties and enjoying the companionship of the brightest and best of the region, if not the world.'

'Are you sure he was Moran?'

'Quite sure, as soon as I saw his mother-of-pearl pocket handgun, a present from Jim himself. I tracked down the seller of that gun. He told me about it just before he was brutally murdered for talking to me. That's when I went further underground, John. Lost contact even with my brother. I was being chased by Moran's best henchmen by the end of the week. They cornered me in a street market one night. I managed to hide in one of the closed stalls, but not before I was shot and left for dead. Bleeding, I managed still to lift a storm drain lid of the street's pavement and worm my way in. That's how I eluded them. I spent days on that gutter, John, shivering with the blood loss and hallucinating with an infection. I may have spoken to you then, for the first time.'

'I wasn't there.'

'I pretend you were, at first. Then it stopped mattering if you were an illusion. You kept me company, John. Probably kept me sane, saved my life.' Sherlock is playing with his empty hands again, I notice. Giving them all his interest, seemingly. 'Eventually I grew stronger and they lost my trail. I came out of hiding, contacted Mycroft for another lead, and carried on my chase of the web. But that wouldn't be the last time I'd face Moran.'

I clear my throat. 'Your brother didn't pull you out of your mission? You were in no condition to carry on!'

Sherlock shrugs. 'I was in a hurry to finish.' He looks up straight at me. 'It'd still take a long while yet, but I didn't know that at the time, of course.'

My voice breaks in a whisper. 'Why didn't you call me?'

He gulps slowly. 'Because speaking with you was the one thing that could break my resolve to carry on. I had to avoid that at all costs.' He gets up, briskly.

'And Moran?' I call him back before he goes away.

He curls his upper lip. 'We had a lovely gun duel at sunrise over the Alps one day. I shot better. He fell down the mountain range. As I went to find him for confirmation he was gone. In the end I left him for dead, and that was my mistake.'

'What, that you can't shoot as good as me?' I smirk.

He concedes with a friendly smile tugging at his lips. 'Naturally, John.'

 _ **.**_

'I still can't quite picture it', I confess, holding a cup of burnt tea in my trembling left hand. Yes, the old tremor has returned, faithful to my inactivity times.

Even my left hand itches for the chance to shoot down the late Jim Moriarty, as I see it.

'What about it, John?'

By the flickering light of the burning logs in the fireplace, Sherlock looks tired too.

'Moriarty, having a sidekick. He didn't seem the type.'

Sherlock mumbles something to himself as he slurps some of his own tea, and instantly grimaces at the cup. He decides to set it away with prejudice.

The superior intellect of the genius never quite grasped how to make a good cuppa.

'John. You are surely aware that many have said the same thing about _me_. And yet, here you are. A fully functional, law abiding citizen, neat freak flatmate, who—'

I cut his description short. 'I'm more than your sidekick.'

He hums and concedes at once. 'Yes you are, John.'

'But Moriarty's a mad—'

'Check.'

'Dangerous—'

'Check.'

'Anti-social—'

'Check.'

'Lunatic—'

'Check.'

'Egotistical sadist – _and don't try to claim on those_ , Sherlock.'

The detective grabs a biscuit to munch thoughtfully. 'Us, misfit geniuses, are not two-dimensional, John. If you can have affection for me, so can Moran for Moriarty. Perhaps it really worked the other way around too.'

'Yeah, well, when you were gone I didn't set up a new Baker Street consulting detective's agency.'

'No. Entrepreneurism is not your forte, John. Why, you could have made yourself a fortune on my name before clients pressed you for results!'

'May I remind you that at the time your name was negative currency?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'I couldn't help that. Mummy almost found out.'

I smirk at that. 'Perhaps I should have tried my luck as a criminal instead.'

'You certainly seem to have an endless supply of inner rage', my friend pretends to consider. His eyes fall on my left hand, still rocked by tremors at a random interval. Sherlock gets up slowly from his chair and goes to his violin and bow. 'Shall we try a distraction for your little problem?'

'By all means, Sherlock. Give it all you've got.'

 _ **.**_

I shiver awake with no notion of time. Glancing around in the darkened, familiar living room, I recognise my best friend deep asleep in his armchair. The violin lays carefully discarded in the coffee table. The place is as quiet as an old house can ever be; the old woods snapping from time to time, the kitchen cold water tap dripping sporadically, the odd car parked outside in the street with its engine on. I find myself tossing and turning in my own armchair, much too lazy to move elsewhere, or to encourage my friend to give his neck some rest in his bed.

My eyelids are drooping when I hear the sound of a front door latch. My eyes instantly open wide into the darkened room. I get up with furtive moves, retrieve my gun from behind the Union Jack pillow, and slide silently out of the room for a furtive perimeter check.

I know which steps to avoid in order to keep my advances absolutely quiet. As I reach the ground floor landing, a cold draft calls my attention to the unlatched front door. He sways to the rhythm of the wind outside.

Mrs Hudson's place is still locked. The mirrored stand with the flower case and correspondence is untouched. Moonlight filters in steadily from the half-moon glass panel over the front door. Again I feel the cold and end up grabbing my jacket to wrap around me.

A motor speeds up in the street, rubber burns on tarmac, and a god-fearing cold sinks in my stomach.

'Rosie!'

He must have got her!

I rush outside, sweat breaking out of every pore and the cold night air assaulting my every sense as I look around in that deserted street. The car is gone. No sign of the kidnappers, no sign of Moran.

I'm about to head back inside, to get all the king's horses and all the king's men – or in all probability just Sherlock – when I'm tackled onto the pavement by several men.

The same car swerves as it cuts the corner and halts briskly by 221. The passenger door is open and I'm shoved inside. _There's no Rosie. My child is still safe inside._

A whack on my head from behind, and I make the most cooperative kidnaped blogger in London tonight.

 _ **.**_

'Rise and shine, Johnny Boy!' singsongs a familiar voice.

I shiver at those words, they bring up echoes of the past. I try to blink, but the darkness won't recede. Blindfolded, then. I try to move but my movements have been well restricted by ropes, binding me to a chair.

'You better hurry up and tell me what you want', I defy at once. I'm not scared of a ghost. 'I'm a bit tied up at the moment, to go paying attention to ghosts.'

The voice changes to a shrill violent snarl: 'Oh, but Johnny Boy, I bet you can make all the time in the world _for me_.'

It sounds just like the late criminal mastermind, and I gulp. 'Oh, really?' I challenge lamely.

'We can talk about Sherlock', the reply is full of sweet-talk. 'We can share him, you know?'

That's when, under the stuffy blindfold, I frown deeply. _We've been here before_. We've had this conversation. That night by the pool where little Carl Powers died, Moriarty spoke to me only to gage if I could be persuaded to spy on Sherlock for him. He had as much luck at that as the last guy who tried it, of course.

These are, _ipsis verbis,_ the same taunting words I heard that night. A legacy of evil, perpetuated forever.

This is why I must be blindfolded, so I can be fooled by a recording. This is the recorded voice of Jim Moriarty.

'Well, Jim', I retort confidently. 'Take your little helpmate and shove him right up—'

The blindfold is yanked from over my eyes before I finish my eloquent string of insults.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	156. Chapter 156

_A/N: John got himself kidnapped ...again. -csf_

* * *

 _ **7**_ _ **th**_ _ **.**_

'You are ...Moriarty?' I ask out loud, after blinking a while. Still getting used to the electric lights in the small concrete walls and floor room, after being blindfolded for so long.

The blond muscular man in front of me sniggers. 'Do I look lik'im?'

I squint. _Did he say "him" or "Jim"?_ I don't like it when people say "Jim".

This must be Moran, the man Sherlock gave up as dead a very long hunt ago, the mastermind criminal's aid that proved to be highly skilled and a definite threat to Sherlock.

'You took up the role of the minion, to do your boss's biding', I strike back, giving him a free lesson in humbleness.

'Just like you.'

I lose my smirk. 'We're the hired help...' I recognise in a mutter, shaking my head. 'Following on their footsteps, hoping to grasp a glimpse of their brilliance.'

'Oh, they are brilliant alright!' he's elated now.

'Only my genius is alive and yours isn't.'

The man's face turns to an ugly snarl. 'Yes. There's that', he recognises, in a matter-of-fact sort of way. 'But I can be Jim. I've known him well, better than anyone. I know how he thinks, operates.'

Suddenly the man hits me again, viciously, almost knocking me off the chair. He's sure got Moriarty's abrupt mood swings down to a T.

I don't know if I'm more angered by his cowardly power display, or by how much he has haunted Sherlock over the memory of a dead man.

Perhaps it's fitting that us two should meet in the end. As Sherlock and Moriarty did.

'You're using Moriarty's puzzles. Tell me, are you repeating old tricks or did he leave you instructions for crime-mongering in his will?'

Moran leans over a table by the only and locked door, where my jacket is strewn without care, and picks up something of his own. He inches closer to me again, with a rusty blade glistening in his hand.

We're on the same level, both defending our heroes. Too bad I'm at a disadvantage, tied to a chair.

 _John..._ In a blink I could have heard Sherlock's voice in my head. Sorrowful, worried. He really doesn't see me coming out of this on the upside, does he?

I square my shoulders, my gaze stuck on the weapon as it inches closer. It touches my shirt, over my shoulder. I can't repress a shudder.

Jim's done his homework. This is my bummed shoulder. A shortcut to my weakness.

The hired help grins maliciously.

'Where's your mate now? Will he come to your rescue?' Moran inches the knife in, and it takes all my willpower not to shout or squirm. Can't move. Minimise the damage, keep it a clean wound, John, keep steady. Sweat is pouring out of me. I'm assaulted by pain, fear, and the urge to fight. The madman spits his questions avidly now: 'Will Sherlock come if you're in danger? Will he come to save you?' I shake my head. Breaths are coming ragedly. Must leave Sherlock out of this, for Sherlock's sake. The knife inches in again and the pain is so strong I could throw up. My body starts to shake violently. Somewhere in my pain drowning mind the doctor in me knows this is the beginning of shock. I need medical treatment fast. I need to keep in control. 'What do I need to do to make you call him?' I glance downwards as the first trickles of warm liquid that run down my arm to the crook of my elbow. I really shouldn't have. At the visual evidence of the obvious, everything runs dark around me.

The madman grasps me by my hair and yanks my head back so I'm facing his steal eyes. 'Call him, John. Call for your hero and I'll let you go.'

I shake my head minutely, tears prickling at my eyes. I know what he's doing. He's trying to taunt Sherlock. He's probably got Sherlock on speaker. He's calling Sherlock to make him hear me, hear my pain. Then he'll have no more use for me.

 _He can't call Sherlock._ My friend cut off any conversation right from the start. Always one step ahead of this creep. I smirk as I see it dawn on my enemy's face.

Sherlock is not picking up the call, huh?

The madman shoves my chair back and I fall unaided backwards, still bound to the chair. The knife still stuck in my shoulder follows me. I hit the floor with a thud, my head hitting hard. The darkened room turns instantly black.

 _ **.**_

Feeble and nauseated, I come to in the empty room. Just me, tied to a chair on the floor, knife stuck on my shoulder. No bad guys, no good guys. Just left behind as everyone carries on with their lives.

Guess it's time to save myself.

Sherlock is sure to come, when he actually finds out I'm in danger, he'll be a reckoning force to avenge me. But, just in any case, I think I should bolt out of this hellhole.

You know, go home, patch up the wound, get on with my life. Just another deranged creep looking for his 15 minutes of fame.

I wriggle my right hand behind my back to try to set it free from the restraints. Even though I avoid the other hand, my left arm immediately feels on fire.

Yep, it's a nasty one.

I might just have to seek amends before I get out of here to Baker Street. It's probably a good idea, given that Sherlock is also in danger.

Yeah, alright. One more mission, soldier, before you go on leave.

 _John!_

Oh, nice, I'm hallucinating my mate's voice again. Sherlock is clingy even in my mind's ear. He sounds commanding, forceful. Wants me up and fighting.

Well, give us some time, will ya? I'm a bit tied up!

My hand comes loose and I grasp my wounded shoulder at once. Tears in my eyes, stars before me. The lot, as I try to steady my breathing.

Up you go! Nice and easy!

I grab my scarf out of the discarded pile of clothes on the table. I loop it carefully around my shoulder and tie a loose knot. Holding one end of the scarf with my teeth I prepare to pull on the other one. I need to apply pressure on the still oozing wound. No other way about it. Better make it fast.

I almost keel over, I certainly find myself leaning heavily against the dirty wall, trying to find oxygen in my gasped breaths.

 _John._ Sherlock sounds confident now, hurrying me. Thrilled, excited. We are about to go free, he implies.

Yes, I'll be right with you, just let me get the door open first...

I hurl my jacket over my left shoulder and sleeve my right arm. It will do.

Pocket. I smirk. The idiot captor never cleared my pockets. He got my gun and ignored the rest. Well, I'm armed with a paper clip and I'm Sherlock ruddy Holmes' sidekick. I know how to force locks.

It takes me a little while, with the pain making it harder to focus and all, but I manage to open the locked door. I glance onto the corridor. It's clear.

My luck. I should be over the moon. But I just don't feel right. Blood loss can give you a persistent feeling of doom, I recall. Superstition is something Sherlock would frown upon.

 _John!_ Sherlock's hushed imaginary voice incentivises me to hurry along.

Stop bossing me about! I'm going as fast as I can. And where are you, I might add?

No answer now, mister wise guy?

Footsteps around the corner of this corridor and I almost miss them in my imaginary bickering with my own ghost. I hurry to hunch out of sight behind a door left ajar.

The cleaning cupboard, plenty of mops, buckets and industrial detergents. Not that any of this will help me much. It will have to do, I suppose.

Two bulky guardsmen patrol the corridor in tandem. I let them go near the door, when I hurl the first canister of floor polish. It's heavy and I knock the first guy over. The second reaches for his gun, but his hand is struck by a swing of a mop handle, and the gun drops to the floor and slides away on the short waves of floor polish trailing on the floor. _I didn't use bleach so I wouldn't permanently hurt anyone, I'm a nice guy who knows his hazard symbols on chemical products._ I give them my innocent smile as I'm spotted and it's two against one and a mop. No big deal, I suppose. A whack to the knee, and a refresher over the neck artery, making him feel like he can't breath for a while. I budge him towards the cupboard. His mate takes out his gun and shoots my way. A bullet goes straight past my head and I give the guard a good telling off with a frown. Why did you have to let everyone know I'm here, huh? He hesitates, because he expected to be seeing me run or hide. Instead I grab the hot barrel of his gun and twist his wrist until he lets go. He's shoved into the cleaning cupboard too and I close the door. I have to grab a nearby chair to jam the door knob and make sure the unlocked door stays shut.

Two guns now, I pocket one and hold the other for show as I pace the corridor quickly. Need to get out of here fast. More bad guys will be converging on me now.

A shadow at the end of the corridor emerges and recedes as quick as lightning. I take cover just as the spray of hot bullets knocks the plaster off the walls around me. I'm hunching behind a turned over decorative table that has already taken in quite a few rounds. It's cracking up and won't shield me for long. Suddenly the excess belligerence stops and that curiosity marked moment is when I spring my gun out of hiding and shoot only one bullet.

See? It only takes one bullet. Save the environment: economize your bullets.

The bad guy drops like a sack of potatoes.

I hurry off out of hiding and jog down the corridor, frowning at the sight of the dead man.

For a while I jog through endless corridors and up narrow flights of stairs. It's starting to get to me, the eerie quiet. Either there's no more bad guys other than the deranged lord of the manor, or they are now efficiently focused on not letting me out more than stopping me from strolling about. Either way, I don't like it. You don't treat guests like this...

Coming to a long corridor with no windows I need to make a choice. Left or right. I stop for a moment, collecting myself. I'm sweating buckets and I run a sleeve over my forehead. My bummed shoulder is throbbing like it's announcing the end of the world. The red patch spread over my shirt has grown significantly wider.

I glance back behind me. Damn it! I've left a trail of blood to be followed. There's no time left, I must stick to my daring escape plan.

With difficulty I part myself from the wall I was leaning against. _Happy with me yet, Sherlock?_

The imaginary genius seems to be too busy to answer. Hopefully coming to my rescue, for real. The least he can do is give the bad guys a hard time in my memory...

I trail down the corridor in the direction of voices. I really should have gone the other way, but I swear I'm hearing Sherlock now. And not just my imaginary version of him.

At the end of the corridor there's a large wooden stairwell that fans out to the floor below. Like a set from a 1940s movie, the waxed steps lead to a marble entrance hall with a luxurious chandelier lit up hanging from the ceiling in the open space.

I've come off the standard version of an underground bunker straight to the set of some Bond villain's lair.

Guess it goes well with the mother-of-pearl handle on his customised gun.

Far below, but not as far as that, a detective git is watched by two thugs and confronts the man that captured me, the man who brought back Jim Moriarty and has taken up his legacy.

 _ **.**_

Seriously, Sherlock? Wouldn't a covert rescue mission fit the part best? Do you always need to talk to the bad guy in charge? Sometimes just getting the police is good enough, you don't need the whole Hollywood showdown, you know?

 _Sherlock... He's going to get himself killed!_

How do I get Sherlock to know I'm here? Telepathy isn't working. Must think of something clever.

I desperately look about me as the conversation proceeds down below:

"Mr Holmes, of course, I heard a lot about you. What do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"You've got something of mine, I believe."

"Won't you come in, Mr Holmes?"

The overly polite chitchat is interrupted as the decorative marbles from a flower jar start cascading down the stairwell. The henchmen step forward, confused. The bad guy clutches his mother-of-pearl handle, dainty but deadly, gun, bringing it out in the open.

So much for the sophisticated and harmless act. But thanks for the confirmation of identity, nonetheless.

Another mysterious marble flies straight into the bad guy's back of the head. He stumbles forward. Sherlock grabs him easily and knees him in the gut, forcing him to drop the gun.

'He's nowhere!' the henchmen shout as they reach the top of the stairs. Only then do they spot the dangling doctor high up on the chandelier, bouncing back with speed. I knock them over with a double kick, before the chandelier sways back into the void over the entrance.

'John!'

This time it's Sherlock's real voice. He's both relieved and angered. I deal with him as soon as I get down...

As the chandelier returns to the beginning of the stairwell, I let go in a jump back.

I curse as I hit the floor less than gentle or heroically, but I still manage to keep my injured shoulder protected.

Meanwhile Sherlock is not an idle man. He's got the madman under gunpoint and has tied him to a nearby chair.

I feel almost vindicated. Way to go, Sherlock!

I unarm the two collapsed thugs that lay unconscious on the floor after having hit the wall hard, and prepare to go downstairs. I hesitate then, leaning against the wall, as I'm not quite sure if I can safely go down those steps when I'm seeing double and triple.

'John, you're hurt!'

Damn it, he's spotted it. Now he'll really go berserk.

I slide along the wall to the floor. Not in a hurry, after all.

Suddenly Sherlock is bouncing up those steps with his long legs, coming to my aid.

No need, I'm fine. Go back. Moran is a sneaky one.

My croaky voice doesn't say all it was commanded to. Sherlock doesn't obey either. He comes over and carefully reaches out to me, unsure of where to touch me to help me up. After all I'm a bit mussed and smudged from my nice parley with Moran. Sherlock finally notices my jacket is not fully on. He peels back the fabric and hisses under his breath.

It looked far worse when it had a knife sticking out of it, don't be like that!

'I'll be fine once I get a little rest' - is what I say instead.

I take Sherlock's offered hand and pull myself up.

'Sorry.' My friend looks confused at that. 'For making you have to rescue me', I explain.

He shakes his head. 'You seem to be doing all the work, John.'

That brings a smile out of me. I'm still a soldier then; even when I'm being the proxy for personal attacks on Sherlock Holmes.

Slowly, with the utmost patience and care, Sherlock helps me down those treasonous stairs to the hall.

Okay, he can be the solo hero now. I've had enough for one night, thank you very much. I'm feeling drained.

Only, something's not right here. We both stop short, shocked.

'Hm... Sherlock, I saw you tie up the lunatic, raging criminal, right?'

He follows my wide eyed gaze. The chair's empty now.

'Let's get you out of here, John.'

'But you've got Moriarty's impersonator somewhere! You can't let go of this chance after chasing him for so long!'

Add those years of while exiled out there to this estimate, mate! You've been after Moriarty and all his ghosts for a very long time indeed.

I watch his chiseled features with apprehension. Is this the moment when he leaves me behind to go chase his destiny? How can he take me along when I'm hurt? After all, he carefully avoided promising it. He's taking back my nemesis, my contribution to the team.

Sherlock takes one glance at me and reads the raw honest thoughts I keep for myself.

'Just drop it, John. Moran's not so important anymore', Sherlock assures me, still supporting most of my weight.

Sherlock has come a long way, to deny battle with this soulmate nemesis.

It's a life changing decision he makes without a second thought. He'll have me safe as his priority. He'll be by my side.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	157. Chapter 157

_A/N: Last part is here. Many thanks for coming along. Still not British, a doctor or a detective. -csf_

* * *

 _ **8**_ _ **th**_ _ **.**_

Sherlock and I head through the front door into the cold evening sunset outside. I can feel the cold damp air, the smell of the sea and hear seagulls cry out on their search for fish. This mansion, and the bunker bellow, I realise now, sit atop a 30 feet drop of a cliff overhanging the sea. I missed that fact, on account of being unconscious when brought over against my will. Now I realise our getaway plan will depend on that speedboat on the small cove below.

'Wow, did this guy watch Bond films or what?'

'Bond films?' Sherlock repeats with no recognition at all. 'Are those films where people get tied up and—'

I cut him short: 'Movie night marathon refresher as soon as we get home, Sherlock. I can't believe you deleted that!'

He acts all dignified. 'Your daughter can take up a surprising amount of space.'

'Oh.' That's an incredibly sweet declaration I just inadvertently coerced out of my best mate. Too bad this is not the time or the place to squeeze him of some more. I really would, where it concerns my Rosie. 'Sherlock, let's get down there. That boat is our only means of escape.'

He agrees with a short nod. 'Luckily for you I know how to steer a speedboat. I learnt it while undercover in Croatia, running a smugglers ring for a retired countess with a wooden leg and a fascination for stealing rare pearls.'

'You're bluffing.'

'Will it prove my story if I drive the speedboat?' Sherlock acts all dignified again.

'What? No! That proves nothing of smugglers and pearls.'

'It's actually the countess' wooden leg that matters, John. That's where she hid the best pearls.'

I missed this; bickering with Sherlock Holmes.

'You're trying to distract me from our track in a rocky and dangerous cliff side when I can hardly see straight and you are just about supporting my weight!'

'Yes, John. Is it working?'

'Yes, it's working, don't stop now! Can I blog about the countess?'

'Your audience wouldn't find it a credible story.'

'They never do, yet they read on', I grimace with a sigh. 'I'd have them know truth is often stranger than fiction.'

'Almost there, John! Keep going!'

I would have answered his well-meant fib, but one lonely burst of sniper bullets lands us on the heath and rock ground at once.

'Damn it, it's Moran!' I say, useless as it may be.

'He makes for a terrible Jim when he's not following the dearly departed's instructions', Sherlock protests at the crudity of a deranged man hunting us down with a shotgun.

'Run, Sherlock, run!' I incentivise, pushing him away from me. He can still make it out. Night falls around us, and darkness can cloak him as he takes himself to safety.

'You can't run, John, not in your current condition. I'm not leaving you behind', Sherlock hisses venomously at the thought of abandoning me to save his own life.

He's desperately looking all around us. That's when the speedboat down below bursts into a ball of flames. Rigged to explode if it ever fell on enemy hands, then. That was certainly Moran's precaution, and not the channelled Moriarty from the after life. After all, Moran was once a soldier at war. He's a strategist. We're now at his mercy on ground he knows like the back if his hand.

Sherlock comments: 'It was working just fine when I got a ride over, no need to do that.'

'Yes, by the way', I notice, 'how did you contact Moran? He tried calling you, you know...'

The detective pretends not to care, by shrugging. 'It must mean there is an alternative provision to leave this place.' Then he glances at me. 'The minister's son talked. Turns out Moran couldn't help partaking in his lavish lifestyle. From that information it was easy to identify Moran's current alias and pinpoint the geographical location of this over the top lair.'

'That all?' I joke, with a proud smirk. This time he glances just in time to notice my expression, and a soft bashful blush glows on his face as he abruptly turns it away. I clear my throat and whisper on: 'If that ball of fire was our only boat, Sherlock, what do we do?'

As two fugitives being hunt down by a murderer who has earned his name, we look at each other with desperation.

The best ideas often come to Sherlock in the most dire times. I hold onto my faith in Sherlock Holmes. I'll hold onto my faith to the bitter end.

Suddenly Sherlock's expression turns blank and his blue-green eyes grow wide, on his pale face that the evening chisels with soft shadows. 'The dominant winds, John!' he proclaims in epiphany as if that cleared it all up – that's it, no more to see, we can all go to bed, good night children!

'Explain, Sherlock!' I order, impatiently, instead. Blood loss making me raspy now.

My best mate tries his best - he never denies me as an audience - but his mind is racing too fast. 'It's an old cove, the pier is built of at least a hundred years old wood, grey, cracking and full of crustacean engrained build-up. Not only sail boats landed in this desolate cliff, John. Think birds, high in the sky!'

What? A riddle? Right now? Is it really the time?

He pulls me along, to the next cover under a salient piece of rock. He also seems to be feeling for those dominant winds and studying the gulls flight pattern.

I won't disturb his calculations. I've got full faith in Sherlock. And no Plan B.

Another leap, closely shadowed by gunfire. I shoot my small automatic into the distance of rocky terrain and clumps of sea battered heath, just to keep Moran on his toes. I can't spot him as night fully settles around us. Moran has got the advantage of knowing the turf, and I've got a world-class genius.

Sherlock finally pushes me over a longer stretch of rocky path, while he too empties his magazine rounds shooting blindly above us. As we reach for a small natural cave, the detective is throwing the useless empty gun over the cliff. It bounces off the rock in several places in its slow descent to hell. I can't repress a shudder as I watch it fall down. It could be us next.

'John.'

Sherlock calls me back from my abstractions, with a demanding plead for attention. I turn inwards on the dusky cave and...

I blink several times. I didn't expect this hallucination to persist. It seems to be real.

A small biplane. A bit rusty, a bit old. But the front paddles are shiny metal and there are extra cans of fuel further into the cave, suggesting this _beast_ can actually fly.

This is our ticket out of here.

'Hm, Sherlock?'

'Yes, John?'

'Ever flew a plane?'

'No, John.'

This would have been the time for a good fib, mate.

'But', he adds then, 'I once read a good book about it.'

There are noises coming closer to the cave's entrance.

'That will do for me. Get in, Sherlock!'

Sherlock hops in the _beast_ , straight at the commands, and helps me up too. As soon as I take a madman's seat by my best friend's side, I get my gun out and shoot a warning bullet to the entrance.

The gunpowder noise is deafening in the enclosed space, granting us some privacy.

The motor chokes, the paddles rotate into action and Sherlock speeds up the engine while still holding onto the breaks.

I shoot my last bullet at the emerging shadow at the entrance of the cave. Sherlock releases the breaks, the small aircraft glides forward picking up speed.

It's still a rather slow bird as we emerge from the mouth of the cave, and, its wheels losing contact with the ground, it drops several feet before it finds glory in a favourable wind that supports it from underneath and raises it proudly in the sky.

We're flying!

Sherlock and I are chuckling with silly joy and tears in our eyes, as we head off the coast. Heading anywhere but back to hell.

Underneath us the ruined speedboat is still a grey ball of smoke. Behind us, Bond's lair is an illuminated skeleton of marble columns and glass walls castle, left wide open and feeling remarkably cold and empty.

Sherlock gets a headset on and murmurs to the intercom, requesting permission for a low altitude flight over the water, back to mainland, plotting a course for which no flight plan has ever been filed. I settle back on my seat, exhausted and in pain, against the mouldy padding.

Suddenly, the plane jolts to one side. Sherlock quickly recovers horizontality with the commands, but glances worriedly at me.

'Seems that we've might have picked up a stowaway, John.'

'Moran?' I groan.

'Who else holds so much to lose that he'd risk his life in this fashion?'

'I've got no more bullets!'

'Neither does he. I counted his fired rounds. And you wouldn't shoot an unarmed man, anyway... But he knows of neither of our circumstances.'

I nod, feeling really tired now. Holding my gun up as a prop I open the cabin door at my side against the strong swirling winds – Sherlock doing his best to keep the plane stable – and howler into the night:

'Give me your hand or you'll fall!'

A dirty, claw like hand emerges from under the plane's structure. Our hands meet in the desperate connection of life. I start hoisting him in to the cabin with all my strengths, Sherlock is clever enough to grab hold of my jacket with a desperate grip as he sees me leaning out of the machine.

I realise Moran is too heavy and put down the gun on the padded seat so I can use both hands. My shoulder protests in agony, but it's a human life at stake. I won't let go. He'd fall into the deep water's abyss. Two hands and I pull him up, Sherlock is pulling me back as well. Moran emerges, a deep contemptuous snarl on his face. He spots the gun. I follow his gaze, then look back and shake my head. _Don't do that, mate. I alone cannot hold you, if you let go you'll fall._ He shoots a venomous look at Sherlock and lounges at that empty gun. He falls from my desperate grasp, too heavy with the strong swirling winds, and my desperately weakened shoulder. The trigger is pressed but only air is hit in the rounds chamber. Moran falls back. Into the abyss.

Sherlock pulls me back inside the plane and shouts at me to close the cabin door. He's having trouble keeping the plane on a steady course with the door open.

The detective needs to shout his message more than once before the words make sense to me.

I lock the cabin door. Moran is gone. Moriarty is gone. I doubt they'll ever find either body.

Yep. I'm in shock, now. I can feel it in my bones.

I lean back on the seat, looking blankly ahead.

Sherlock lays a steadying hand on my leg and promises me: 'It's all over now, John. We're going home.'

 _ **.**_

'Let your dad sleep a while longer, Rosie, and you'll get ice cream for dinner again.'

From the midst of my doze on the long sofa, snuggled under a blanket, I hear Sherlock's negotiating techniques plainly.

'Ice cream and cake!' Rosie bargains at once.

Sherlock fakes a tired sigh. 'Fine, I should have never let my brother babysit you in the first place... Come along, let daddy sleep and I'll show you the shrivelled hand of an 18th century cursed witch, or so they say.'

I open my eyes wide. _Hm, Sherlock, my daughter is far too young to be exposed—_

I find those two sniggering in mischief. Sherlock is kneeling on the rug by a bunch of dolls as one more in the imaginary tea party. Rosie is rolling on the floor, animated by delighted giggles. She's got this amazing, sunshine-bright, grin that will light up a room.

Smiling too, I force myself to a sitting position even before Sherlock comes to help me with an extra pillow.

'John, we thought you'd never get up! We were getting bored, you know...' He seems to realise only then he's still holding a dainty miniature porcelain cup. 'On the upside, Rosie has clearly inherited your tea making abilities.' With a confident smile he hands my child her teacup back. She keeps pouring imaginary tea to her dolls, ignoring us as if we were plain boring adults again.

A stab of pain and I hunch over my shoulder, taking deeper, paced breaths.

'John, do you require further medical attention?'

I shake my head, and measuredly let go of the air I've been holding in. 'I'm alright, mate. It takes time.'

'Then I should ...cook tonight', Sherlock concludes, with the most uncertain tones.

'Yeah... Maybe not ice cream, though.'

'No...' Sherlock agrees at once. As he gets up reluctantly to go to the kitchen, Rosie is already giggling like mad. The detective turns at once, suspicious. Lucky thing, he's missed me winking at Rosie. She's laughing the harder now. Sherlock finally realises he's been double-crossed by the little evil angel. Rosie plays us all and is a master double agent.

Just like her mum.

'Come, John, I'm not your chef. You can give me a hand', Sherlock demands.

'I'm not chopping vegetables with my arm like this', I warn him, grumpy, getting up.

Rosie puts on a bewitching grin and suggests: 'Ice cream?' She even pouts adorably, and I have no idea who she learnt that from...

I sigh. 'Yes, Rosie. We all get ice cream for dessert.'

 _ **.**_

* * *

 _2nd A/N: I think I left myself enough narrative space to ponder two continuation pieces of this plotline, eventually. If you feel like commenting, would you give me your thoughts on that? -csf_


	158. Chapter 158

_A/N: It happens that I found out that a blood moon is a real astronomical event. If you haven't heard, we had one, with a lunar eclipse on its piggyback, this Saturday. Here I am, desecrating science for fun – again. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.1.**_

"We're having a blood moon."

I guess Sherlock should have paid more attention to that piece of astronomy trivia. But Sherlock Holmes is ever defiant and a little episode like having had supernatural blood in him and becoming a vampire, highly responsive to full moons and the sort, was quickly put behind his back, just like any other wild experimentation with which he frequently tempts fate. What he didn't know was that, apparently, a blood moon – the actual astronomical event, that Sherlock soon deemed as unimportant as the Solar System – could bring back a mild case of _undeadness_.

Like malaria and other recurring maladies, patients contract the illness and never really rid themselves of it. Symptoms returning sporadically and requiring further medical attention.

With all going well, in three to four days the vampire-struck patient will be back to his healthy, remissive state. For now, he's got a minor case of hypothermia, near absent breathing and heartbeat, and a big loss in appetite – to the exception of a bloody rare steak. No reflection in mirrors, animals scurry away in fright, and garlic is murder; just a few anecdotal side effects of vampirism.

The first time around, Sherlock got himself a posh vegan dietary regime, but his basal need for human blood consumption could only be denied for so long. I donated voluntarily. He behaved, not sucking me dry as his feral instincts demanded. We were both very awkward about it, but he was a gentleman and took no more than he needed to.

This time around, trust in Sherlock's self-restraint already been built (on this account alone), I plan to make regular small donations for as long as his ailment lasts.

Meanwhile, we search for a cure. I checked the lunar calendar; there will be other blood moons, blue moons, lunar eclipses (these shouldn't affect Sherlock, should they?), full moons, new moons and the occasional comet. And I still don't know if this means Sherlock is a permanent asymptomatic vampire now, and thus will live forever; but _I won't._ After I'm gone, who would provide the precious lifeblood in liquid form to my friend?

 _ **.**_

Friday morning, and I come downstairs to the kitchen still sleep mussed and groggy. As usual, the nocturnal detective is still up.

'Morning, Sherlock... How did you sleep?'

He frowns on me, and hands me a cup of tea.

'Won't go to bed for another hour or so.' He strains a smile. 'Ah, the long winter nights! Fabulous opportunities for a vampire that needs to keep away from the light of day as much as he can.'

'Of course, photosensitivity. I forgot! But... last time you managed.'

'I avoided it as much as I could, if you remember, John. As for the rest of the time, a high sun protecting factor skin scream with UV rays protection is available in most commercial establishments of the type.'

'So you just use your regular stuff', I gather, crossing my arms in front of me. He's got four times my shelf space in the bathroom.

'Basically', he admits, not without some suspicion. 'Some of us have sensitive skin, John, and don't go for the rugged look on a daily basis.'

I hide a smile in my mug. 'Just a couple more days, Sherlock, I'm sure.'

'I'm bored already', he hisses in protest. 'I need a case, John!'

'In your state?' I shake my head. 'Not sure a bloody crime scene is advisable at this point. I mean, you are already known to sniff and feel gruesome corpses, but if you lick them, Sherlock—'

He blinks. 'I'll do nothing of the sort', he protests, huffing away. 'Now stop making me hungry!'

I chuckle softly.

 _ **.**_

Every once in a blood moon, my best friend is a vampire. The high cheek bones, from the flipped up collar down to the flowing long coat, from the pale skin to the lustrous raven hair; all fits in neatly. The only big contradiction is that my friend is not attracted to death, not at all. A common mistake that. Forget all the late night expeditions grave robbing at old cemeteries, or how St Bart's morgue is basically Sherlock's home away from home, or even how Sherlock is so willing to swoop in on a macabre crime scene when other investigators try to their mightiest to keep some distance. Sherlock puzzles about death because it baffles him. Death is the ultimate solution to the enigma of Life. Sherlock Holmes is light, hope and possibilities unending. He's the hero to save your life in the brink of destruction, the scientific investigator to fuel new discoveries and a good friend in the dark times. Naturally, he's attracted to all the things he isn't, as opposites often attract. From the start, he's been partial to an old soldier carrying the shadows of death inside him.

'John.'

I look over the back of my armchair to the detective insinuating himself from the landing. It's the first time I see Sherlock after I arrived from work at the surgery, a couple of hours ago. I called out for him, wanting to make sure he was okay, as I got to 221B. We had been texting all day, but still— From the other side of his locked bedroom door, Sherlock growled at me and told me to go away. "He's fine", I thought, very used to his habitual moodiness.

 _The man that now has silently emerged from self confinement is not the Sherlock I'm used to._ Something in his livid expression is too cold, too dead, and the small trickle of dry, speckled blood he neglected to clean from the side of his mouth isn't helping the overall picture.

It's only been a day. Night time is finally falling outside, and the moon's stronger influence is jarring the cursed detective.

'John, could you... give me some? I'd be eternally grateful.' And he smirks to his own wit.

This is a colder, more selfish Sherlock, but I fancy I can still recognise my friend in there, somewhere.

'Nope.' I pretend to carry on reading the book on my lap. 'You just had your blood bag.'

Immediately he positions himself in front of my armchair. It's a speed too quick for me to register and a neat trick that only a bored and manipulative detective would want to resort too. I'm not so easily intimidated by his superhuman powers.

'Tasted awful', he even smacks his lips. 'All the preservatives. And it was cold. Blood is not meant to be cold.'

'Take it out of the fridge a bit early them.' I flip the page, nonchalant. 'Just don't microwave to warm it up.'

Sherlock blinks. 'No, better not.'

I smirk. I have successfully distracted the genius. Probably devising some new monographic blog post on microwaves and gory body parts. He's about to turn away back to the kitchen when he halts abruptly. _So, maybe not._

'John, your blood is warm. Furthermore, your blood gives me fantastic strength, incredible speed, heals any wound I may possess, warms me up and makes me feel calm and satiated. The blood bags don't even come near.'

'If it's willingly given away', I remind him pointedly, 'which today is not. You'll be fine. It just lasts another 24 hours, it's not the end of the world, Sherlock.'

The detective frowns and steps closer, eyeing my jugular with a penetrating gaze. Probably counting up my heart beats, guessing how much he could have without killing me or turning me into one of his kind.

'Still no', I mutter, on the edge of my patience.

'I'm a vampire today, John. I'm bigger than you.'

'The latter is true every day, and I still make you wash up the dishes once in a while', I answer with a quick innocent glance at my flatmate.

He huffs and puffs in response.

'Come on, John! Just a small donation!'

'Nope.'

'Fine!' he derides. 'You asked for it!'

Sherlock stamps his bare feet all the way to the desk and grabs my spare gun from the cabinet. That gets my immediate attention.

'Sherlock, what are you planning to do? Put that back!'

He diligently cocks the gun, aims it to his left leg and presses the trigger.

White noise fills my ears. Automatically I jump forward, press on the wound of a wobbly self harming detective, help him to a seat in his armchair. He willingly hands me the gun, that I lock and toss across the desk. Sherlock then hands me his scarf, I use it to put pressure on the wound. The blue fabric quickly becoming tainted red.

'I'm feeling a bit faint, John.'

I glance upwards to his pale, pain riddled face in anger.

'Fine, you win!' I admit, handing him my wrist. He takes up the outstretched hand with the gentleness of reverence.

'Your radial artery?' he checks.

'I like this jumper, okay?' I spat at him. 'That's what you're getting, you bloody idiot! Take it or leave it!'

I suppose I shouldn't have angered him just as I volunteer to be his meal. Sherlock's fangs protrude from bluish lips and his eyes turn dark, as he pulls up my sleeve to spare my jumper nevertheless.

'I won't take too much. Just enough. You smell delicious today, John.'

With that weird compliment, he latches on to my wrist and pierces the skin. And sure I've got a bucket load of adrenaline in me to numb out the pain, but not as much as the last times, when Sherlock's life was hanging on the edge, so this time I feel the pain shooting up my arm, but also my muscles lock in place; I wouldn't be able to stop him if I tried, not until he's done with me.

After the first intrusion of fangs, blood flows freely out and Sherlock latches on to the offering, gulping desperately. The pain subsides at once, as if his saliva could have numbing properties. According to the traditional lore, it does.

I glance at his wound, concerned about my friend. To that, Sherlock hesitates, surfacing from his feeding and glancing at me. I can almost recognise some guilt on his features, but he deserves it, after all.

Sherlock hisses, he really does, and dives back on my wrist. I yelp in pain but his hold on me is vicelike. This is not the Sherlock I know, this is a selfish, animalistic beast that is draining me.

The self inflicted wound on his leg has stopped oozing blood and closed itself. _A vampire can self-heal and I curse myself._ He didn't need my blood. He just had to panic me into thinking I was saving him. Voluntary donation, one that I was tricked into...

Sherlock stops abruptly, grimacing as if he had a sudden bad taste in his mouth.

'So you figured it out', he as much as admits, 'that I tricked you. Your blood changed taste. It's foul to me, all of a sudden', he repudiates.

He smudges the red trickle at the side of his mouth.

'You deserve it!' I snap, angrily.

He has the decency of looking chastised. Before he lets go of my wrist, he slurps up the blood trickling down, so it won't be wasted on the rug. That also has the effect of stopping the bleeding and closing the wound. He grimaces in displeasure. 'You are getting more and more angry with me, John. No need to deny it. I can taste it.' He dry swallows repeatedly to overcome the bad taste.

'You really done it this time', I mutter, grudgingly.

'You ordered takeaway, three hours ago, on your phone app. Extra on the fried rice and egg rolls. Enough sustenance to allow this donation. Don't be silly, John, I had it all under control from the start.'

Actually that's was for Mrs Hudson, I recall. She's not good with takeaway phone apps. Same delivery address. And you've been spying on my phone again!

Sherlock never hears the words I don't say out loud. He helps me to the long sofa, to rest a while.

The sudden chance of position is too much. My vision does a backflip, and I pass out midway. My last contact with reality is a complaint grunt from the two-faced beast holding me up, carefully carrying me.

 _ **.**_

'John, talk to me... John!'

I blink, coming to in a foggy, weak contact with reality. Sherlock has laid me down on the long sofa, under the cover of several blankets, and the night time hues of darkness, moonlight and electric lamplights now filter through Baker Street's partially veiled windows. My friend is kneeling on the floorboards beside me, face contorted with guilt, as he dutifully watches over me.

'That's it, John. Wake up, I need you here.'

I turn my face to him. I can see red smudges on his face, that he didn't bother cleaning; maybe he isn't even aware.

'Hey', I groan, feeling floored. My eyelids droop of their own accord.

'You're still very weak, John. I went too far.'

I nod. 'Guessed as much.'

'You have no sense of self-preservation. Your selflessness mislead me as to how much I could have.'

I try to focus on the Great Britain map over the wooden cabinet by the window. There could be two or four of them. 'I need to sleep.'

Sherlock chuckles softly. 'Yes, you do. I'll be right here if you need me.'

 _ **.**_

'John, can you hear me? You were mumbling in your sleep... John? You're burning up, John! You're the doctor here, do something!'

'Later...' I mutter, still half asleep.

 _ **.**_

'John, it says here on the book that if a vampire drains his victims of too much blood, but not enough to ensanguine them, the victims themselves will turn into vampires.' I hear a very audible gulp from the reader. Then the book is snapped closed. 'John, I deduce you are on the early hours of your transformation into a vampire like I was. Like I am, temporarily. Well, assuredly I'll stop being by tomorrow night. Whereas your curse—' He gulps loudly again, and his voice fails him altogether.

'Worry not!' he finally says in a chirpy falsetto. 'I will put it all back to normal in no time, and I can undoubtedly show you how to best survive this curse meanwhile. You are not alone, John. I'm here for you.'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	159. Chapter 159

_A/N: I love the resilience of John H. Watson. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.2.**_

I get up late in the morning, wondering what on earth possessed me to sleep in the sofa. I scratch the back of my neck, stretch my arms and make a beeline for the kettle and tea bags.

The kitchen is much the same as usual. Sherlock's glassware paraphernalia mounted to some inscrutable scientific excuse to understand the day-to-day world that escapes my atypical flatmate. The sink is littered with unwashed mugs stained by leftover tea remnants. The chairs never matched to begin with.

What throws me off is that everything is too bright. It's nearing midday in a wintery England and it reminds me of Afghanistan's sun-filled sandy planes.

I rub my eyes, wondering if I'm also getting a piercing headache to top it up.

Sherlock has better not drugged me for Science. Not again.

 _No. Wait. Sherlock. Vampire Sherlock. He... drank my blood._ I grimace at that. Who in their right mind would go about—

I stop short. And make a sharp turn. Facing the sofa. Did I hear Sherlock say he had drained too much of my blood, that I have turned into one of his kind?

I chuckle, uncertainly. _Not that funny, mate! One of us needs to be the grown-up._

And, really, if I was a half-undead vampire right now I'd not be _dying_ for a morning cup of tea.

There. Proof I'm still the same John Watson.

I go back and decidedly tick on the kettle. And where is that treasonous vampire, anyway?

As if responding to a calling, the detective bounces up the stairs to 221B with a spring in his step. As he sees me up he smiles. 'There you are, John!'

I frown at the sight of his dressing gown. He wasn't out, then. Must have gone down to Mrs Hudson's basement. He's carrying a blood bag; it's probably where he stashed them. I can see it, plain as day, in my mind's eye and I smirk at my insight.

Sherlock places himself placidly by the corridor door, scrutinizing me.

'Sherlock, we need to talk about yesterday', I start, quite serious. It was a bad breach of trust.

'Yes. We must', he agrees at once. Holding the blood bag up, almost in preparation for something to come.

I strain the tea bag out of the mug and take a deep breath.

'Sherlock, I trusted you, last night', I start. He blinks, anxiously.

'I understand that, John.'

'Do you?' I seriously doubt it. I pierce him with a deep glance as I drink some soothing tea. Tea makes everything better; or almost everything.

Sherlock's eyes widen. Tentatively, he asks: 'How's your tea, John?'

'Nice. It's a nice cuppa.' You can make you one yourself!

'Doesn't it taste... off?'

I look down on the swirling liquid with sudden mistrust. But it's tea.

'No, it's fine.'

'Wouldn't you rather...' he holds up the blood bag.

My mouth waters at the sight of it. Suddenly it seems _as nice as_... tea.

 _Nonsense. Tea will always be my favourite._

Sherlock assures me: 'You'll need a meal in you soon, so I chose my own blood type. I assumed it was fitting it'd become your favourite. It's often the case with vampires.'

I take a step back, hitting the kitchen unit with my back. 'I'm not a vampire.'

Sherlock sighs. 'John, this would all be so much easier for all those involved if you'd just accept it quicker. I'll even apologise for contaminating you. My bad. I took too much blood. I turned you.'

'I'm nothing like you!'

He flinches at my words, but stoically bears their brunt. 'No, John. You are an incredibly generous doctor and I will never quite make it up to you for the harm I caused you. My only consolation is the hope that you can now live forever. And for that side effect I will never apologise.'

I shake my head, shocked. 'I keep telling you. I'm not a vampire! See, I'm drinking tea!' I show him my mug. I even point at it.

He rolls his eyes. 'I didn't say you stopped being John Watson. Think of it as an upgraded, undead, version of you.'

I grab a chair to slump down. 'No.'

Sherlock sighs, impatiently now, and comes grab me by the arm. He conducts me to the bathroom, then to the lavatory sink.

'Look up.'

I do. No reflection of any of us two in the mirror. I shiver from head to toe.

Sherlock grabs my razor and hesitates in the slightest before running it down my arm, as I hold onto the basin in front of me for dear life.

Blood surfaces, red and _alive_. Then it stops. Two seconds, it took. I run my forearm in water. There's no sign left of a wound in my smooth skin.

I find myself licking my arm. Instinct kicking in, I suppose. The dull throb of the receded wound disappears also.

Behind me, Sherlock grins. 'Oh, good! You're a natural, John. Should have expected that, really, for you never cease to amaze me, John Watson.'

I blink. Then turn.

'You are in so much trouble right now, Sherlock...'

I storm out of that small bathroom with a half-pledged growl.

 _ **.**_

'John? I can hear you in there, breathing loudly. Heightened senses, remember? You have them too now, by the way.'

Sherlock knocks insistently at my bedroom door. Only he doesn't really know how to knock. Not properly. He keeps rapping at my door incessantly, stubbornly not stopping. A constant rhythm meant to disarm me by exhaustion.

It shakes my frame, as I'm on the other side of that very door, sat on the floorboards, leaning my back against it, arms wrapped around my legs.

What has my life become?

My only hope is that since Sherlock was in a remittent state, that I too may only be ... _a part-time vampire._

I only have to endure a day longer, two at the most. Of course, if Sherlock asks, it's a couple of hours. That's why I must not drink that revolting blood.

 _It will all be okay in the end._

'John, I called the surgery, told them you were in no state to show up for work today. Not until you master your vampirism, anyway, I don't think you should surround yourself with all those temptations of cuts and bruises. As to all the illnesses about, you wouldn't want to feed yourself in substandard quality blood anyway. I guess you could give injections and hand out vitamins, but that would bore you half to death anyway. Well, the other half, the one still alive, not the one currently vampired, but you know what I meant.'

I groan. _But I'm a doctor!_

'Lestrade has a case, but I made him come to us. Don't think I can leave you alone just yet, and it's unadvisable that you should face a bloody crime scene for now. Although I must correct you, now you're like me; dead blood is unappealing to vampires. We like our blood as fresh as it gets.'

 _And the blood bags?_ I counter in my mind.

Sherlock answers me aloud: 'The blood bags are full of preservatives, nasty for the taste, but longer shelf life.'

I turn to the door in haste. Did he just read my mind?

I have no time to form words before I hear a police car stop by our front door on the street below. Really shouldn't have heard it. Heightened senses, said Sherlock? What else was there? Incredible strength, sharpened instincts, high tolerance to pain and all this for free? It's like being offered the chance to be a super-hero, and I can either waste it feeling sorry for myself, or I can master these new – hopefully temporary – gifts.

I get up, marvelling at how loose my bummed shoulder feels right now; it'd figure I'd need to be just a bit more dead before it'd stop bugging me.

The door recedes in a fluid gesture, and I find Sherlock still with his hand poised on his routine knocking.

'Sherlock, let's use our gifts', I announce.

Nothing changes in his overall posture, except that he grins widely. 'Took less to convince you than I thought it would, but I never lost faith. Often recalcitrant, you never fail to join me in adventure.'

'Yeah, let's leave that till later. Lestrade's here with a case for us!'

Sherlock follows by my side with a proud grin.

Baker Street's vampire duo is active.

 _ **.**_

'Isn't it too early for a drink, mate?'

The detective inspector eyes the tall red wine glass Sherlock brings me and understandably mistakes the content. I'm still too used to being a human – or I just don't have Sherlock's lack of shame – and feel guarded, not wanting to set the record straight.

Sherlock handed me this for he can see I'm starting to grow weak and lack the proper nutrition for my new vampire side. He also knew he'd avoid a lot of protest by handing me this in front of Greg, thus effectively shushing me.

I'm feeling a bit shy here. Does everyone need to be around as I drink this?

Maybe I can do without. A fast. Lots of people fast, for religious or medical reasons. Maybe not vampires, though.

Greg is muttering on about his case, not at all concerned that Sherlock has got all his attention stuck on me. That's sort of... normal.

' _...he hid the body in the cellar, as he renovated the house. It was one of those old Victorian places and he was knocking down walls that uncovered hidden rooms that hadn't seen the light of day in over a hundred years! Apparently there was this old coal shaft that led outside, to the front garden. That's where he hid the first body...'_

That's gruesome. I mean, not just the inspector's story, that's a given, but also my first sip of the drink in my hand. My mouth is watering, though. And by the gaunt look on Sherlock's pale face, so is his.

I put down the glass and try to focus on the narrative instead. You know, be John.

' _...the first body was under a blooming bunch of azaleas, but the second one got dumped inside the pit of the old stove and boiler that once fed the house. I mean, there was no metal structure left there, people at that time reused everything. They probably just melted the metal and built some ammunition for some war. There was only the empty niche and an upward shaft that ran through the house up to the chimneys. I suppose that's how the decay smell got diluted. The cellar always smelled somewhat, according to the neighbours, but no one paid enough attention...'_

My stomach rumbles, empty. Everyone in the room turns my way and I blush. 'Sorry.'

The inspector worries: 'John, you don't look so good, mate. You should eat something, you look about to pass out.'

'I'm fine', I mutter automatically, looking longingly at the glass and forbidding myself.

' _...the third body finally gave this guy away. I suppose he ran out of hiding places. He stashed the brother-in-law behind a false wall he was just putting up as his first party guests rang the doorbell. This nice couple noticed the smell of paint and plywood and, not to be found cagey, the murderer had to take them downstairs and show them the renovations. That's when the mobile phone rang. Everyone looked around, but no one answered. The sound seemed to come from the other side of the fresh wall...'_

I reach out brusquely and take a good swig of the deep red liquid.

Greg stops short, looking dumbly at me. 'Jeez, John! And on an empty stomach? What is wrong with you?'

Sherlock arches one high eyebrow and languidly remarks: 'Boredom. You don't need me for your case, inspector. You have your unimaginative corpse-hoarding murderer.'

'Yeah, but I didn't come for you this time, Sherlock. I came for John! The last victim was still alive when he got walled in. Emergency services got him out alive but... he's in shock. I thought John might give us a hand', he finishes full of doubt.

A clear hiccup erupts unbidden from me. Oops.

The inspector turns to Sherlock and demands, authoritarian: 'Tell me what you've done to John this time.'

Sherlock scoffs, indignant. 'Why do you always assume it's my fault?'

'Experience', Greg states flatly.

'John has got an alcoholic sister and you assume I poisoned him?'

'Yeah, John's my mate too. He can handle more than a glass of red. Are you too having a bet behind my back?'

Sherlock rolls his eyes, reaches for my glass and sips the last few dregs there. Drinking away the evidence, that's clever. Possibly he was also dying to do that. 'There. Not poisoned. Would I poison myself?'

Greg blinks, running possible scenarios in his head, remaining unconvinced.

'You know it pays to have me on your side, Sherlock', he finally advises wisely.

To that the Baker Street genius has no quick comeback.

'Fine, I inadvertently turned John into a vampire for an unknown duration of time.'

' _Sherlock!'_ Both Greg and I protest avidly at once.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	160. Chapter 160

_A/N: Not a happy bunny chapter. It came out of nowhere, really. Maybe I could do with some holidays. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.3.**_

Doctor Molly Hooper has two new ones on the morgue slabs.

None shows more than the barest signs of life.

DI Greg Lestrade stands guard at the door, cross expression on his face, ready to force us to stay in.

Sherlock could probably take him down in a heartbeat, with his heightened strength and reflexes that come from being a vampire. And now that he has passed on his curse to me, I suppose so could I. Of course we won't. Greg just won't trust us because we're vampires now.

Molly is the most appropriately trained doctor to do a check up on a half-dead creature, after all; if I can't be trusted to be impartial now I'm one of the kind too.

She shuffles her feet back to Sherlock's side, who is laying down indolent on a cold slab, hands united to his chin and a dreamy expression in his shiny eyes.

'Sherlock, I'll just draw some blood.' He looks her over but adjusts his arm to her silent request. His other hand curls so there's only one outstretched finger pressed against his bluish lips, in keeping with the thinking pose. Molly leans over him with the needle and efficiently puts it to use. She gets the fewest millilitres before the puncture wound closes itself. The pathologist frowns and starts again. I'm about to explain what is going on when Greg stops me, directing curtly from the door:

'You can speak at the end, John.'

I squint. _Why the huge mistrust?_

The vampire drawls helpfully: 'Don't suppose you'd have an ice pick somewhere, Molly?'

She steps back, as if frightened, certainty of our condition dawning on her. Greg and Molly cross heavy gazes.

I hold out my hand to the pathologist ignoring me in detriment of the consulting detective with the unbuttoned shirt. 'Give it here, Molly.'

She hands me a new needle with trembling hands, her worried gaze hardly leaving Sherlock.

I open the collection tube, bite my finger, and let the blood drain until the wound magically disappears. Solved. Watson style.

I even label the sample before returning it to the pale woman in the lab coat.

Molly stores the sample but comes back to me with less reverence than she approached Sherlock. Her stethoscope is cold too; lousy bedside manners, I think, before I realise she's got no practise on the living ones.

'It's faint, but it's there', she assures the detective inspector with some relief. _I still have a heartbeat_. 'Slight tachycardia, though. "Code blue – wheel in the crash cart"?' she miserably adds to the inspector.

She knows shocking me back to life won't work.

Sherlock jumps up from his cold slab at her words, a puzzled look in his gaunt face. He stops by my impromptu bedside and ponders: 'You're John Watson, a fighter. You are still fighting the curse. Yes, I should have seen it, you wouldn't accept the poison tainting your blood that easily. In your core you are still fighting it.' Before I know it the detective has his long fingers on my forehead. 'You're burning up, how curious. Your body is reacting to the vampire nature as if it was an infection. Always a doctor, John...'

That radial artery lingering just over my face has a delightful scent and Sherlock's faintest heart beats fill my ears. I can feel my newly acquired fangs protruding to meet his lovely pulse, and immediately cover my mouth with my hand in shame, opening my eyes wide.

Sherlock smirks, well aware of my instinctive reaction.

'However you are a natural, John!' he whispers to me, with that infuriating smirk.

Then his eyes turn dark, darker than a moonless night, and he tilts his head. A cold dead stare accompanies his musing: 'I should finish what I started. Drink your last heartbeats, drown in your lifeless body.' His fangs come out fully, Greg shouts his name, he hears nothing. 'One last feed and you're mine forever.' He swoops in on that last feeble pulse of mine and is about to touch my skin when Greg pulls him back.

'Sherlock, no!'

The powerful vampire with supernatural strength wields to the ordinary human at once, looking confused, as if brought back from a feverish dream. He looks at the inspector holding him back and staring him down, then at me on a slab, and his knees seem to falter all of a sudden. He steps back against the other slab.

I raise myself on my elbows, feeling utterly confused.

Sherlock's soliloquy saved me, with its dramatically hyped, excessive lore. If he had promptly swooped down on me, no one would have parted us in time.

'What just happened? Sherlock, last time you were living out of cooked beetroot for a while, and now you are desperate to dry me out?'

Sherlock shakes his head, like someone trying to rid themselves of intrusive, feverish thoughts.

'You're like me now, John. That makes all the difference.'

I still don't get it. I don't want to prey on Sherlock, why would he on me?

Greg decides at once. 'We'll keep you two separated until this is over with. Hopefully we can prevent the situation from getting worse than it already is.'

I grimace in disdain. 'What? That I'd be _more dead_? Sherlock didn't mean it, it's all fine.'

The stubbornly well-meant inspector insists: 'John, you have no control over your curse. And Sherlock – mister "I have mastered all emotions" – has even less. We need to keep you both apart, and we will.'

I snigger. 'I'm a vampire, now. You really can't make me do stuff.'

'That doesn't even sound like you, John. The old John knew I was trying to help. The new John wants to recklessly prowl the land with his vampire mate.'

Sounds enticing, I must admit.

'Not exactly prowl—' I start rebutting, nonetheless.

The inspector looks painfully at me before nodding at Molly. She stiffens and walks over to her desk, and fiddles with a drawer.

'Look out, John!' Sherlock hisses.

I feel the same distrust. _But it's Greg and Molly!_

Two blood bags, donated by some anonymous generous people, come out of Molly's desk drawer. Sherlock relaxes at the sight of a promised ready meal, and directs: 'It's okay, John.'

I shake my head. _I'm fine, I can do without._

Molly hands Sherlock one of the bags, that he savagely pierces with his fangs and drinks straight from the packet. The other, she hands me, despite my refusals. 'John', she starts, with no hint of her characteristic awkwardness left, 'if you don't drink up you'll grow weak, and the undead curse will have a bigger hold on you, and it will win the fight.'

I frown, but she's got a point. Shyly, I take my bag with much less greed than my fellow vampire detective, who is currently being monitored by the inspector. I also feel oddly tired so I take the odious bag in my hand – is this what I've come to depend on to sustain me? – and takes a few civilised sips.

The first contact with the pale slick surface of the silver token Molly smuggled past my knowledge makes me hiss and curl. Molly won't give in. She presses her silver charm necklace harder against my forearm, and it burns. It also considerably saps my energy, draining me to a feeble protest.

The donated blood splatters on the floor between us.

Somewhere across the morgue, I hear Sherlock's reflected protest, as the inspector repeats the harrowing experience on the detective, equally disarming him of any super powers.

Working in tandem, Molly and Greg wheel our slabs back into the morgue's drawers, locking us in separated from each other.

 _ **.**_

Hmm. It's cold and dark and musty in here.

I'm still shivering from the contact with the silver. Molly's necklace is wound loose on my wrist. I try to take it off, but I'm just not strong enough. I can just about gasp for air and keep my nausea in check.

I trusted them. Molly and Greg. I trusted they could see past the horrible monster I've become. They couldn't. I guess they were frightened for themselves, and London. So they did what they thought was right.

Did they have to trick us? Sherlock and I only ever wanted to live out our curses the best way we could. Now we're buried alive in the morgue for the duration of the blood moon's effects. Maybe longer for me.

It takes a while before the full ugliness of our predicament dawns in me.

Suddenly, someone opens the drawer and the morgue's fluorescent light floods in. The slab is slid out with haste, and I find Sherlock's eager face inches from mine.

'John, talk to me!'

He immediately grabs the necklace chord, unwinds it and throws it on the floor, as if burned him to touch it too.

'How did you do that?' I ask, voice still weak.

'The inspector's teaspoon was just a cheap silver-plated knockoff. It gave me a small rash, that's all', he reports, scratching his arm. 'But, John, I felt your pain as if it were my own, _not on me, but a part of me_ , and I knew I had to play along. John, for the last time, tell me how are you!' he almost shouts that last part.

I sit up straight, feeling returning to me at last.

'I'll live, lighten up, Sherlock!'

Then I frown at my words. Life is not something to promise easily these days.

'We need to get out of here', Sherlock and I say at the same time.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock works the morgue's electronic lock like it was child's play, and we emerge on the deserted corridors as the duo of escaped undead that we currently are.

'What are we going to do, Sherlock? We can't trust Greg or Molly!'

'We don't need them', the consulting vampire answers me, defiantly. 'The two of us must stick together, though.'

I nod my promise, just as a blaring alarm sounds through the building. We halt in shock. The overhead corridor lights go down and are replaced by the intermittent red glow of the alarm points.

'Was that us?' I ask, squinting, then glancing back at the morgue's door, a few feet back.

'No', Sherlock answers quietly. 'But, of course, we are not the only vampires in London and this blood moon's influence is particularly strong.'

I sigh and close my eyes. Yes, of course there are other vampires about. There have been for centuries. Usually keeping themselves minimally civilised and mostly inconspicuous.

'And they're taking over St Bart's? Are they hungry?'

'No, St Bart's is like the frozen food aisle in the supermarket. No one wants tries to eat frozen pizza still inside the supermarket.'

'How would you know? I do all of the shopping...'

'I should know. I once got myself locked inside a supermarket out of hours whilst working undercover for a mafia case on counterfeit goods... John, focus! They did not come for food. Maybe this isn't vampires at all...'

The empty corridor turns double ominous with an official recording played out over the scratchy speakers:

 _《_ _This is a lockdown. Please remain calm and at your current locations while security checks are at place. I repeat, this is a lockdown. Premises will be thoroughly checked and any cause for alarm will be dealt with. This Hospital will return to normality as soon as possible. This is a lockdown. Please remain calm—_ _》_

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	161. Chapter 161

_A/N: Not much of a chapter, but it's all I've got. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.4.**_

 _《_ _This is a lockdown. This Hospital will return to normality as soon as possible. This is a lockdown. Please remain calm—_ _》_

'A lockdown? How did they find out we escaped, so quickly?'

'They didn't, John. This isn't meant for us at all. We just happen to be at the right place, at the right time.'

I look straight at Sherlock Holmes. He's now smiling like a child with ice cream. In fact, he positively radiates a happy glow from where he stands, next to me, even if every inch of his demeanour is cold, contained and aloof as per usual. Even the coat's collar is upturned. It's like I can sense more in him than I ever did before.

Now that we both seem to be vampires, of the undead kind.

I wonder of this means that the shared undead experience has brought us closer together. Or if we started reading each other's states of mind in some unique bonding thread.

'Sherlock, what is the atomic number of silver?'

'The element? 47, John. It's elementary, you know?' he smirks. He also patiently waits for me to make my point, for once.

'It's not for the rest of us, mate. Hmm, what is—'

 _Hmm, what more direct questions can I ask that I can't recall from that pub quiz a week ago?_

'John, you're struggling already, I can tell', he sighs. 'What is this really all about?'

I feel some colour briefly hitting my livid cheeks and confess: 'I think we're sharing some mind link, you and I. Haven't you noticed, we're more attuned to each other's thought processes than usual?' He nods, he's noticed too. 'So, would you go to your mind palace for me?'

'Why me?' he hesitates. It's a lot to ask from a consulting detective with a history of being fiercely independent.

'Because you already easily read my mind on a regular basis, Sherlock.' Try to deny that!

He glances at the emergency lights flooding the corridor in an eerie orange glow. 'Now?'

'Please. Quick recon, Sherlock. Don't go somewhere I wouldn't want to see. That is, if I can _see_ into your mind.'

He looks oddly vulnerable for a second but then shrugs, and nods his assent. He closes his eyes and I close mine.

I can picture Sherlock reaching for a door knob on a solid oak door, nondescript to me. One of several in a long corridor, I sense, though not very clearly. There are some foggy patches about; either our mind connection is far from perfect yet, or he really wants to keep the details of his mind palace in his private realm. I have no objections. As far as I know I'm his first wandering guest among these intellectually constructed walls, and it's a privilege. Sherlock focusses only on that one door in front of him. I can see it now as if I were him. We turn the knob and push the barrier open. Behind it, there replays a memory.

 _A blond man inside one of St Bart's labs. Asymmetric shoulder patch on a newer looking jacket than I'm wearing today. The shorter man is seen from a slightly higher angle, having come in with Mike Stamford. He turns, honest blue eyes, slightly dimmed but daringly surveying the ones he's looking back on. The height difference has abated. This is a quiet presence that knows how to fill the room on cue but choses to be unassuming, which is intriguing and all consuming to the taller viewer. I can sense leaps and bounds of curiosity radiating from the imaginary spectator's standpoint. Immediately the blond clears his throat and looks about stiffly, settling back to the role of blending in with the surroundings._

 _Fast thought processes, too fast for me to grasp, and I can only sense Sherlock was analysing the way the walking stick supported my weight, how much I weighed, my dominant muscles, my probable military past. It's all done and over with before I can catch one of those fleeting deductions._

Suddenly I'm yanked back to reality so forcefully that it makes me step back, unbalanced, against the corridor wall. As if I had been violently plucked out of the mind palace by its owner. What was I about to learn that Sherlock didn't want me to access?

We were sharing a common past memory, and yet Sherlock threw me out his mind palace.

There was some inner though or emotion he felt at the time Sherlock really won't have me access now.

I look up on the detective's features, that height difference suddenly so apparent between us. He crosses gazes with me and demands at once: 'Happy now, John?'

There's an underlying hint of apprehension in his cold, reserved demeanour. _Whatever he's hiding, he fears I have accessed it._

I clear my throat and look carefully around us. The emergency lockdown still pressing over us, demanding action from us. 'I'll be happier when we get out of here', I diverge.

Sherlock takes the diversion with concealed relief.

 _What did Sherlock see in me the day we met, that he won't have me know now?_

'Got a plan, Sherlock?'

'You should know, John, I always have a plan', he answers in that grandiose way of his. 'Usually I consider multiple plans at one time. Only half of them are complete busts from the start.'

I glance at my friend in surprise. Sherlock glances at me too, his exotic eyes looking a lot greener and younger than in this last 24 hours.

I smile, questioningly. He smiles back, reassuringly.

 _ **.**_

'Sherlock! This is not the way out!' I hiss, keeping my voice down as much as I can, as I'm following Sherlock's lead as best as I can, crawling about a claustrophobic air duct.

The great detective shushes me at once.

Yet he is compelled to answer me.

'People like you, John, are comfortingly predictable. From your morning tea routine to – well – to your evening tea routine, I could write a physics treaty on John H. Watson and declare you an immutable law of the universe.'

'Are you mocking me?' I squint in the semi-darkness.

'Whereas you have been consistent with yourself, the detective inspector has been remarkably out of character. Which begs the question of what could motivate his unfaithfulness.'

'I'm with you so far...'

He glances over his shoulder from the lead inside the small conduct.

'So you are', he admits. 'John, I believe we have spooked the inspector. Think! George wouldn't be scared of us, even as vampires!'

'It's _Greg_ ; and the name swapping is only funny in his presence.'

'Why lock us up in a weakened state, then?'

'To keep us confined and protected where other vampires wouldn't think of looking for us', I realise. 'You think there's some sort of vampire uprise in London tonight?'

Sherlock halts so briskly I almost collide with him.

'John, this moon's influence is far too dangerous. It made me do the unthinkable. I never meant to hurt you, and look at you now.'

'Oh, shush it! It's like having borrowed superpowers for a while, what's not to like?'

He returns to his paced crawling forward.

'Thank you for your kindness, John. I will put you back to normal, I promise you that.'

 _He can't, though, can he? The only way to break the curse is to end the vampire that brought it on, according to the traditional lore. And that would be Sherlock Holmes himself._

 _ **.**_

'Lab rats are not the most nutritious diet, John.'

I keep opening the stacked up wire cages in this laboratory we've ended up in.

'I'm setting them free, Sherlock, just setting them free.'

'I'm enjoying your newfound mischieviousness, John, but one wonders if this is really the time?'

 _They were terrified when we entered the room. Their animal instincts sensing what we are now and driving panic into them. I felt for them._

'It really didn't take that long', I counter, as the last creature scurried away behind a work bench. Rows of microscopes and bottles of colourful stains lined up on the worktop.

Sherlock releases some dramatic long suffering sigh and directs me: 'Man the door, John. I need access to the microscopes if I'm to reverse our curse!'

'What do you expect to see on the blood smeared slides? Little bat-shaped red cells?'

'Actually I want to study our white cells count, will you just mind the door?'

I mutedly parrot his insistence as I go take a sentinel seat by the door. I'm feeling tired now. Probably hungry. I didn't quite take Molly's offer of the blood bag earlier. I still wouldn't.

 _《_ _This is a lockdown. Premises will be thoroughly checked—_ _》_

The corridors are quiet, despite the insistent lockdown message. I glance at Sherlock, bending over a microscope doing his thing. Closer to me, a rat eyes me suspiciously from atop an autoclave. I wonder how the little fellow got up there. 'Come here', I invite the scared white rat. He stiffens, even his whiskers stop trembling and his red eyes fixate on me, before he takes to all fours and comes towards me.

'John, he's not being friendly you know?' Sherlock warns me, still keeping all his attention focused on the microscope. 'You have commanded him. He's obeying you. Congratulations, you are now in charge of his tiny mind.'

I glance at my friend and back at the rat, that stops and wiggles his whiskers once.

'You are free', I tell the little creature, and immediately the rat runs away in fright. 'Oh.'

'Subjugation only works on smaller minds. Lestrade won't be so easily controlled', Sherlock starts again, glancing up from the microscope.

Like Sherlock would ever!

I turn my head suddenly. _'Sherlock!'_ Time is up. I heard something in the corridor. Something not quite human.

 _《_ _This is a lockdown. Please remain—_ _》_

The recording dies down suddenly, giving way to ominous silence. Sherlock steps away from his microscope, tense. I glance at the thick door as if I could strain my eyes and see beyond it.

Suddenly there are rushed footsteps inching closer in a desperate sprint. The door are forcefully opened and Greg Lestrade rushes in, breathless, shutting the door in its wake. He leans against the heavy doors, closing his eyes as he catches his breath.

'Hi, mate.'

He jumps at my words. Glances at me, then Sherlock, like a deer in headlights. I'm about to give him a nice lecture on friendship when he cuts us short:

'They've got Molly.'

 _ **.**_

'Who's "they", Greg?'

The breathless inspector's frame trembles against the door, keeping it tightly shut.

'The big bad vampires that have been terrorising London? Honestly, guys, where have you two been? You must be the only ones that didn't know about these creatures. He's way more powerful than Sherlock ever was; or than you can yet be, John. That's why I bloody locked you inside the morgue drawers! Gave me the creeps too, doing that to you two, but I honestly wish you'd have just stayed in! Was it the silver spoon, Sherlock?' he asks directly to our friend. 'I knew aunt Edna had left me the crappiest pieces in her will! She always favoured my other uncle...'

Deep pounding on that door separating us from our doom makes us all jump.

'Hope you have your own will in order, Lestrade', Sherlock comments unhelpfully, stepping forward.

'Are you crazy? You can't go out there, Sherlock!'

'I can't not go; he's got Molly. It's okay,' Sherlock glances my way, I nod. 'I'm not alone, Lestrade.'

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	162. Chapter 162

_A/N: Last one. Plot twist. What can I say? I'm too tired, lately. It just happened. I'll go hide now. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.5.**_

'Why Molly?' I whisper, at the most improper of times. We've come out of the laboratory and walking in a line we are threading the corridors, searching for destiny.

I shake my head. Sherlock and I must now rescue our pathologist, not find sense in a fiend's mind.

Molly is like a magnet to master criminals and bad literary type villains, it seems. Not that our usually mousey and awkward friend is not a valiant, resourceful and bright force of nature (we owe Sherlock's victory over Moriarty to her). But she is customarily underrated. What would a bunch of mad vampires on the loose want from Molly?

 _Unless..._

Sherlock stops short of our silent march, freezing on the stop.

In fact, I don't know how much of these thoughts, of deductions, were mine or Sherlock's, now we seem to share an open radio transmission, mind connection link.

 _I'm just sure the world class detective got it too._

These ominous vampires prowling about London are looking for one of their own. Judging by their insistence, I'd say they are trying to find their leader. Perhaps raise him from the dead undead lot.

Sherlock and I worryingly glance heavily each other's way. Close by, Greg protests: 'It's not obvious to me, for god's sake!'

We both look the inspector's way.

'You noticed we can read each other's minds now?' Sherlock deduces, not without some awe in his pale features.

'What? You can? You always could! Doesn't make much of a ruddy difference, does it?' the inspector counters, testily. 'So go on! What am I missing because I don't have your telepathic link?'

 _He's soon to regret asking to know..._

'The vampires want Molly to provide them with their undead leader. A corpse, if you will, to all appearances, that has come the morgue's way.'

Greg squints. 'Molly would be able to tell the difference between a real stiff and... a half-dead monster.'

I flinch at the characterisation. They ignore me. Sherlock rolls his eyes, indolent. 'We can fake death, inspector.'

'Not for a whole autopsy, you can't.'

'We heal, of course we can.'

The inspector runs his calluses hand through his stubble.

'Yeah, that's just creepy, sorry. Why would some vampire just lay back and let Molly get on with it?'

'Biding their time. Or weakened, perhaps. Now he's about to join forces with his ranks, though. He's going to rise more powerful, perhaps too powerful.'

'And how you know all this, Sherlock?'

'I can feel it in my bones', the naturalist detective just states, before returning to his decided march. 'And it's the only possible deduction, really.'

 _When you eliminate the impossible—_ I can just about hear Sherlock's words floating through our mind connection.

A piercing scream suddenly erupts through the corridor. Undoubtedly feminine, utterly angered, borderline ridiculous in fashion, as someone would utter in contempt and outrage, more than in fear or pain.

Immediately we run forth, not entirely sure how to intervene, but heroically determined to keep our friend from any harm.

Sherlock reaches the door first. He tries the handle and much to our relief it gives in at once. We storm in, (assuredly) breathless and urgent.

'Good golly', the inspector mutters under his breath. He's the first to react to the scene.

Molly is standing tall over a pile of bodies from the morgue's drawers. In each hand a stained wooden stake. Her lab coat flutters open in the cold room, her pony tail only slightly askew.

She looks up to us from the destruction of her making and smiles meekly. 'Oh, there you are, been looking for you, guys.'

There's a loud clank as I drop my handgun, inadvertently. I look down, then at the audience, and pick it up, muttering my apologies.

Sherlock smugly smiles. 'You don't require our help, I trust, Molly.'

She rolls her eyes. 'Been dealing with vampires long before you two arrived. I'm a pathologist, after all', she answers in a matter-of-fact way. 'I've got a special set of silver autopsy instruments too, a personal collection I've been building over the years, if you want to have a look... Well, perhaps once you are done with your curse.'

Sherlock courteously admits: 'I appreciate you haven't used those on John and me, earlier.'

She giggles at that. 'Thought it would give you a fright, even if just to subdue you two. By the way, you were supposed to have stayed in that drawer as bait, Sherlock. Luckily your lingering scent was still strong enough to lure these guys in. Otherwise they would have been roaming Bart's looking for you two forever more. Do you have any idea of how much more paperwork that would be? Your brother wouldn't be happy, Sherlock.'

'Mycroft?' The detective pronounces with some despise.

'Obviously. Your brother is aware of vampires in London since the 1897... You don't really think it could have passed him by, John?' She asks me that directly, as Sherlock's expression is pondering and Greg's is admitting. I'm the one still in a bit of a shock.

I blink. 'But—'

Her smile softens in some empathic understanding. 'I know it's a lot to process, John, but of course I'm used to dealing with vampires. It's all part of the job, you know. Vampires exist, and more often than not, they come by the city morgue. Some are very polite and we have a nice chat. Helps ease the night shift.' She shrugs her shoulders. 'Most are just like you or me. Mostly like you, today, John. I don't kill those. Some even work for the MI6 in special ops. Others aren't as nice, and can get to be a bit over the top. World dominance and all that crap. I get that idea off their heads in no time. Or should I say "off with" their heads?'

I'm still blinking. _I've got superpowers. Where's my chance to use my super powers?_

'So, Sherlock and I, earlier...'

'It was about time someone protected you two. But, of course, you'd mess up our best efforts.'

'But—'

Sherlock interrupts me timely, with an amused smirk:

'Just drop it, John. You don't argue with the vampire slayer in charge.'

I look on over to the inspector. He's shaking his head and rubbing his jaw again.

Guess not. 'Ta, Molly. You're bloody amazing, you know that?'

She blushes awkwardly as the Molly we know so well.

 _ **.**_

'A tiny but more to the left, John. No, my left. That's too much now. A bit to the left. No, your left!'

I sigh and try my best to follow Mrs Hudson's instructions on the placement of her solid oak wardrobe.

Sherlock reminds me, patiently, as he can see as well as sense my impatience – that I'm trying my mightiest to keep from Mrs H.

'John, you were the one insisting on using your superhuman strength for the good of mankind, remember?'

Mrs Hudson exhaled a loud sigh. 'No, I really don't think it quite works, do you? John, let's put it all back the way it was. Be a dear, will you, while I go make you a nice cuppa for thanks.'

My impatience melts at the promise of tea. _Tea is still my favourite._

Mrs H leaves the room with a smug smile, and Sherlock glances lazily at his wristwatch.

'I'd hurry up if I were you, John. If all goes well, our curse is about to go dormant. Right up until the next blood moon, that is.'

'Yeah? You could give me a hand, you know? Before your powers wear off too!'

'Don't be a grumpy vampire, John, it's not becoming', he sentences, but quietly comes to give me a hand with rearranging all of Mrs Hudson's furniture back to normal.

We're pushing the nightstand back against the wall when it suddenly feels like it weighs a ton. I glance at Sherlock. He has taken his hands off the wood surface as if scalding and is now looking at his palms with scientific curiosity. He wiggles his long fingers.

'That was abrupt. No pre-warning, no painful transformation... John? Are you alright, John?' he demands, in concern.

I stretch my back. 'I'm old again, but otherwise fine.

'How inconvenient', he comments. 'An old sidekick.'

I squint. 'You're just testy that you got your deduction wrong, in the morgue. You thought you had found a mastermind criminal vampire to engage with, and you were delighted with the prospect.'

He blinks, concealing perhaps some hurt. 'I would have welcomed it, even if I would have probably been the only one in London.'

His admission melts some of my anger away. 'Do you really think I'm a part-time vampire too now? Like you?'

'I should hope so, John. I wouldn't want to live forever without my old sidekick.'

 _Aww. That's nice._

'And Molly? I mean, isn't her work dangerous?'

'There's more than meets the eye in Molly Hooper', Sherlock finally admits. 'I wouldn't be surprised if she was a powerful mistress vampire herself.'

'No, you don't think!' I'm shell-shocked now.

'I don't know.' He narrows his grey-green eyes. 'I suppose we'll find out the next blood moon.'

'That will take ages!'

His smile turns warm and feline. 'Yes, and I love a good old mystery, my dear John.'

 _ **.**_


	163. Chapter 163

_A/N: Not sure why, how, or where it's going. -csf_

* * *

 _ **first.**_

'Entrapment is the only way we'll stop this thief, Sherlock. That's why I've come to you. What I'm asking you to do is not, strictly speaking, abiding the law.'

Sherlock Holmes shrugs, inconsequentially. He then turns towards the mirror above 221B's fireplace, and narrowing his piercing gaze, just about dares the familiar reflectoin of the detective inspector:

'You are keeping something from me yet, Lestrade. You are aware of my lack of morals, you knew they wouldn't amount to much of an obstacle. John, on the other hand, will give you some fight, before he customarily folds over some warped sense of duty. No, Lestrade, I can tell you're still hesitating. A thief, you said. Describe your thief. Make it a good one.'

Greg clears his throat. 'A good case or a good thief?'

'Both, if you can. Out with it, come on!' The younger detective is more agitated now, frantically pacing the confined space of unused carpet.

Greg still glances my way, sensing my engagement level. He then gathers:

'Lady thief, we presume. She cons victims by abducting one of the couple, while they are on holiday at this small coastal town. Most victims stayed at this B&B, but we cleared the people running it. Meanwhile, as the second life partner is understandably distressed, she makes their acquaintance and gains their confidence to access their room, and she wipes them clean of their valuable possessions, bank account numbers and passwords, the lot. She always disappears without a trace and we have no evidence against her. So we need a trap, says the Scotland Yard. We need a couple who can act convincingly the part of two loving persons on holiday, that our con artist, fake friend and thief can approach. Two seasoned investigators who won't panic when one is locked up in some garden shed and a ransom note is sent to the better half. When she makes her move to wipe the couple's finances we make our move to catch her, she confesses red handed, and we get all the evidence we need to prosecute her in the courts. Get it?'

'And your couple, Lestrade? Are we meant to do some surveillance on them?'

'By all means, leave all the surveillance to us! Just try to _act natural_.'

Sherlock blinks. _He really didn't see that one coming._

He still glances at me, as if to confirm is suspicions on the meaning of the inspector's words; then again, to check whether I'm meant to be the romantic half – most London still thinks we are, according to an underground, online survey of sorts – and I squint at his shocked expression.

 _I'm actually a great catch, I'll have you know!_

'Fine, Lestrade, if we must', he settles at last, Sherlock's face a sudden impassive mask.

I sigh and scrub the back of my neck. I see this being awkward in a plethora of different ways. Sherlock Holmes, pretending to be the romantic type? Don't get me wrong, Sherlock is as human as it gets, he really cares about his few friends and _he's a hero_ , ready to save us from grave danger in the nick of time. As to being openly emotional, displaying affection and playing the boyfriend part... Let's put it this way. Greg as cornered us into the only undercover mission Sherlock is bound to be a failure at. The inspector will be laughing his socks off. I'll even bet it's not his original idea (forced down by some commissioner perhaps), because Greg too wouldn't see Sherlock pulling this deception off with success.

Which means I'll have to _teach_ Sherlock the ways of the land, if we are to have any success. Walk him through public displays of affection – _"Holding hands is a pointless propagation of germs, John!"_ – and little words of endearment – _"Come on, John, you know I meant Stupid in a nice way, don't be obtuse!"_

Suddenly I realise the living room has gone very quiet. Both detectives, the official and the consulting, seem to be waiting for my call. Again, it weighs on me that I'm the only one that can make this ridiculous effort count.

'Sure', I reply. _It's for a good cause, after all._

 _It may still be really funny._

 _ **.**_

Greg Lestrade took care of all the reservations on the afflicted B&B, and our arrival is expected later that day. Sherlock and I took the train – the consulting detective says he likes to use the travel time to think, and with some strike action he had more than we though he would, though he personally might not have noticed.

After hours on repetitive train tracks we finally took a local cab. As our vehicle travelled along the seaside promenade, I could study the green hues of the sea and juxtaposed on the window's reflection Sherlock's mysterious eyes, competing for those deep, vast, colourful hues.

Sherlock suddenly snaps out of the unfathomable depths of his mind. He fixates his eyes on me and recognises: 'You look uncomfortable, John. Why are you uncomfortable? We share a flat, we know each other intimate habits, finish each other's sentences and more than half of London already assumes we are, or were at a time, a couple. Even a poorly trained actor like yourself can pull off this deception, I'm sure.'

That angers me immediately. I bet I'll still be needed to carry this deception before the day is done! Sherlock Holmes being romantic?

'Yeah, shall I just sit tight and wait to be kidnapped like usual, then?' I mutter sarcastically, just as the cab pulls over at the B&B and I jump out of the vehicle, allowing him the joy of paying for the ride for once.

We collect our bags and enter the traditional, coastal inspired cottage in silence. As I sense Sherlock is getting lost scanning the kitschy decor, I step forward to the middle aged woman at the reception.

'Watson and Holmes. We've come for the night', I assure the old woman.

She checks her register with a polite smile. 'Oh, yes, I've got your rooms ready, Mr Watson.'

Sherlock positively growls from behind me: 'That's _Doctor Watson_.'

I glance over my shoulder, a little bewildered. Guess his scanning was short-lived and he's rebooted quickly. _Why not the full works and go for Her Majesty's Royal Army Medical Core's Captain, while at it?_

More composed, Sherlock further amends: 'And one room should suffice, as per our reservation.'

She nods absently, not really fussed. 'Yes, right. Are you a doctor too, Mr Holmes?'

He frowns at once. 'No. Not at all. Not in medicine, at least.'

I help translate: 'Sherlock's got a vast knowledge in several areas, including some knowledge shared, such as human anatomy and nutrition, right, Sherlock?'

He shrugs. _Corpses and poisons are only two of his main hobbies._ He could never single out a couple of favourites like that.

'John, I wish we could hurry to this room.'

'Why?' I think it unkind to the lady taking our details.

'You are my boyfriend, I'm sure you can think of ways in which I want to indulge in your presence without witnesses', he languidly drawls with his usual indolent, deep voice.

I blush, and _I know_ it's an act, but still I blush. The lady risks glancing our way, slightly mortified. She's blushing too.

Gosh, if this is a sample of what actually dating Sherlock Holmes would be like, then I was so wrong. His lack of boundaries and his suave manners are oddly intoxicating, incredibly alluring in all the wrong ways you just want to make right. Any lady would be lucky to have Sherlock in her life. Whether she'd survive his romantic ways is a different matter.

 _Good on you, Sherlock!_ I knew you had it in you. One day you'll find the right one to bring out that whirlwind romance.

We head upstairs after our guide.

'Here you are; room 3, it's got the best views', the house owner interrupts my reverie.

I'm barely inside the carpeted, cramped room and the detective is adamant: 'It won't do. Show us another.'

I'm shocked. 'Sherlock?' Then it occurs to me, he's onto something already. 'Honey?' I add tentatively as it may be.

The lady is clearly distracted by the adamant request, but Sherlock jumps at the pet name, his eyes growing wide and oddly shy for a moment. I squint. Too much? Wrong pet name? Maybe I'm trying too hard now?

A hint of a soft smile settles my doubts as Sherlock seems pleased by such a common love term. Then as soon as the lady turns her back to us on the narrow corridor, Sherlock's steely eyes narrow, as if he was accepting my challenge to up the game.

Sherlock's got quite the competitive nature. _You wouldn't normally really get that, because it comes out in all the inappropriate times and circumstances._

'How about room 2, then? It's more spacious, but I'm afraid it stands right over the front door, so it can be a bit noisier. You'll know just when anyone enters or leaves our cottage.'

Sherlock's smiles is unctuous and hollow now. 'That will do. Kindly leave now. I've got pressing matters to discuss with John.'

I groan inwardly. The woman blushes and leaves, bewildered. I chuck our bags over the quilted bedspread, ready to take a long shower in the small adjacent bathroom. Sherlock just spreads his long limbs on the bed, head against a mountain of pillows and breaks out his much worn out vintage copy of the 1840s Beekeepers Guide.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	164. Chapter 164

_A/N: Please notice Sherlock has two ways of acting a part when needed for a case; total deceit over John Watson, or classic overdone goofy_ _. -csf_

* * *

 _ **second.**_

'You could have been more polite, you know?'

Sherlock makes a brief appearance at the very edge of the bathroom just so I can watch him roll his eyes, full of impertinence. 'You like me just the way I am, John!' And he sneaks away.

 _That's for me to know and for you to guess!_

Drying my tousled hair with a towel, I come over to the bedroom to change the bathrobe for some actual evening out clothes. I try looking around for my battered travel bag, but Sherlock precedes me: 'I've tidied all up, honey. Your things are in the chest of drawers.'

I frown. _Is he practising?_ This helpful detective is not the Sherlock I'm used to. And the endearment language – freshly learnt from me – is a bit of an overkill.

Sherlock seems to sense my obvious contempt, because he suddenly jumps off the bed and in three easy long-legged steps comes over to me. He slides his hand in my nearby jacket and recovers my phone. 'It went off.'

I accept that simple truth until the moment I realise it was Sherlock himself who texted me.

We are under surveillance, John.

Lestrade's men outside. Criminal woman somewhere in this B&B.

Keep up the deception at all times!

She'll have eyes and ears on us.

Do not comment.

Also, you've missed a spot of stubble on your left cheek, by your earlobe.

Do not comment.

That's guesswork, by the way.

Do check the time stamp, as material proof of my foreseeing genius.

You nearly always do when the light is wrong, which clearly is in this small bathroom.

The wardrobe faintly smells of moth balls.

I'm bored already, John!

Thus proving I'm not built for the romantic life.

Why didn't you buy new undergarments for our romantic overnight stay?

You really need new undergarments, John. This is not your colour.

John, I realise we are not actually – well, you know what I mean – but we are – you know what too – then why wouldn't you want to look good for me?

We've got a deception to pull, and you didn't even make an effort!

Your shower is taking too long, John!

You better make it up to me, doctor. I'm a better catch than you seem to think.

I'm throwing away your undergarments. You can do better.

Honestly, John, sometimes I feel like I need to take care of you because you clearly don't!

John?

Are we still okay, John?

Are you angry at me, John?

John?

Look at me now, please, John?

I'm left really confused and struggling to make sense of Sherlock's boredom driven string of consciousness. _That's what you get for sniffing moth balls for too long, I guess._ Looking over to my roommate who indolently stands against the chest of drawers with a blank expression I just groan:

'What in the world am I meant to wear, Sherlock?'

He looks at me and a quirk of a smirk almost breaks through. 'Whatever you want, John. To me you are fine just the way you are.'

And he makes a beeline for the small bathroom, immediately locking himself in with a fresh bundle of clothes.

 _ **.**_

 _Well, he started it._

That's all I've got to say. Sherlock started it. I'm just upping the game. He should have seen it coming. Knows me well enough.

The way I see it, what goes on is being scrutinised by both Scotland Yard and the criminal woman. So Sherlock will have to play along...

...with my candle light supper in the bedroom.

I'll just need to make sure Sherlock doesn't burn the place down out of boredom.

Flickering candle light, red wine and a sumptuous dinner, I've arranged it all.

I knew I had the time. Sherlock always takes about three quarters of an hour pampering himself in the bathroom. No one can quite pull a romantic deception like a flatmate. _We're more knowledgeable than the best stalkers out there._

 _Most times we know more than we ever wanted to._

Sherlock comes out of the tiny bathroom in a swirling wisp of fragrant water vapour. He stops short at the sight of the arranged side table.

'How clever of you', he remarks, snidely. 'Feeling hungry enough to eat both dinners, then? You know I'm not up to a full meal till the end of the week, and you know why.'

 _We're on a case. Sherlock will allow no exception._

I cross my arms in front of me. 'Oh yes you are.'

He squints in adamant stubbornness.

'And why would I do that?'

I squint too, briefly hoping those possible hidden cameras are not too high definition.

'Please, _love_?' I return. This time the picky fake boyfriend just reacts with barely hidden discomfort.

'I'm not one of your habitual conquests, John. I've got a name you'd be able to recall, I presume.'

 _Oh, that's a cheap shot. Jealous much?_ I huff and steady myself to answer him in kind when we get interrupted by knocks on the door.

Were we speaking too loudly?

Mrs Hudson never complains about our carrying on. Well, not really, she doesn't. We know she doesn't _mean it_.

Sherlock sends me a warning glance before going for the door. He opens it to a grinning detective inspector Lestrade. 'Scotland Yard, good evening. I hope I'm not interrupting?'

Oh, right, the inspector showing us his badge at the door is playing someone we wouldn't know.

Greg's eyes wrinkle, amused, at the sight of the candle light supper. 'I won't take much of your time', he adds, politely. 'May I come in?'

Sherlock mutedly steps aside. He's looking stiff for a moment there, I notice, wondering what could have brought that about.

'A police inspector, you say?' I ask politely, uniting my hands behind my back at parade's rest. 'I'm John Watson, by the way, and that dashing fellow over there is my partner, Sherlock Holmes.'

' _Husband_ ', Sherlock corrects, adamant.

' _Boyfriend_ ', I disagree at once.

'Did our marriage mean nothing to you?' Sherlock wonders, making himself look hurt and defensive. I groan and rub my eyes.

Lestrade is trying hard to conceal his chuckles.

'Yeah, I'm in the area to investigate carefully planned attacks on couples staying at hotels and B&Bs. You haven't had any trouble, I suppose.'

'Not at all', I reply.

'That's good, yes. Well, keep an eye out for anything unusual and report anything you feel concerned about.'

'Yes, sure.'

Greg smirks. 'Now why don't I leave you two love birds alone...'

Sherlock doesn't even turn. One hand still on the door handle, he swiftly opens the door to the corridor.

Unfortunately that's the wrong timing.

A young employee brings up a rather large bouquet of red roses I got to mess with Sherlock; and play the boyfriend part, of course. I'm definitely putting the florist bill towards expenses.

Sherlock takes in the young woman with the red roses and her uniform. I introduce:

'Happy anniversary, dear.'

'You mean our marriage ceremony's anniversary, I presume, John. So we _are_ married.'

I bite my lip. 'Don't be silly, that's a while yet. It's the anniversary of the day we met, darling.'

Sherlock squints. 'Wrong! We met on the day Stamford introduced us at Bart's. You're way off, as usual. You are the most inattentive boyfriend, John, and you don't deserve me. If you think red roses can make it up to me...'

'I meant our first date. Or have you forgotten it already?' I try to save our act, thinking fast. Sherlock huffs.

'I bet you got me confused with one of your girlfriends, John. I am nothing like them.'

My turn to scoff. 'Not that again! Are you so jealous that—'

Sherlock interrupts, loudly: 'I love you, John Watson, even if you don't love me right! One day you'll look around and I'll be gone!'

And suddenly I'm the worst actor ever because I lose all my wits. 'Oh yeah, repeat performance, huh? What about St. Bart's rooftop? What about having left me without a word? A single word, Sherlock! It would have changed everything!' I shout, thunderous.

Sherlock blinks. Greg opens his mouth to say something but stops because that would be throw the case out if the window. I clear my throat, feeling humiliation dawn on me.

'I need some air. Please put the flowers down anywhere. Nice to meet you, inspector.' I say stiffly in turn.

I walk past them all and head towards the fire escape stairwell for privacy. On the way I cross paths with a second employee bringing up a parcel from a very upscale menswear store that happens to sell underwear. _Damn it, Sherlock._

 _ **.**_

John, you know I would do it differently now. -SH

Yeah, I bet! Whether Sherlock means his little vanish act or tonight's argument, or even our fake relationship.

Why don't I just get kidnapped so we can get this over and done with?

I put away my phone, at the pub at the end of the street. Immediately it goes off again.

Reluctantly I read the text.

Please come back? -S

I'm staring at the brightly lit screen when a short woman approaches me, taking a seat next to me. I glance at her choice, in a near empty pub, when I recognise her. She's the employee that brought up the doomed red roses. Immediately my senses go on high alert.

'Hi', I state miserably, focusing on the dying foam on my by now stale pint.

'If it helps, I think he loves you', she braves. Not at all what I expected from a kidnapper.

Maybe she's a con artist first, gaining my trust. A bit convoluted, but I'm bigger and stronger than she is, I suppose she could be avoiding a fight, hoping I'd go of my own accord.

'Sherlock only cares about himself, you know. It's not his fault, I guess. It's the way he's hardwired.'

'He's not a machine.'

I grimly chuckle. 'Sometimes one wonders about that.' I raise my glass and drink the vile thing in front of me.

The pub owner comes around and she orders a cider for herself and a refill for me.

'Now you'll make the git jealous', I warn her.

She ponders me awhile. 'You're not very kind towards him, are you?'

I blink. 'I get to say what I want because he knows I'm in permanent awe of the git. From the way he looks, and talks, and moves, his incredible mind, and nimble musician fingers, the man is utter perfection. He's everything, and I'm lucky he lets me hang about. So a lesson of humbleness is really a public service.'

Our drinks arrive and my unexpected confident let's me don half of mine without kidnapping me.

'The way he was looking at you when you weren't looking... was like he's so lucky to have you too.'

I glance at her, surprised. Then I remember. 'He's a manipulative one. He can cry on cue, you know.'

She shakes her head and looks away in the pub. 'Funny you'd know that. Doesn't seem like the sort of thing a manipulative person would let others get wind of, unless they really trusted them.'

I frown. 'Whose side are you on anyway?'

She shrugs. 'I don't care, really. I just earned a double gourmet dinner and a bunch of prime roses. But...' She collects her things and gets ready to leave the pub, 'he kept the card that came with the flowers, John. Now why would he do that?'

I watch her leave the pub, before I push away my drink.

Not the kidnapper, or she took pity on me.

 _Can't even get kidnapped these days..._

 _ **.**_

As I enter the darkened bedroom I find Sherlock fast asleep, curled up in the small armchair by the door. I take a few unsteady steps towards the bed and collapse over the quilt haphazardly.

Some time later I hear the bedroom door gently close on its latch, and a detective return to his exhiled station, and realise Sherlock wasn't asleep at all.

He was genuinely worried about me, waiting for my return.

Sleep well, John. We'll talk in the morning. -S

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	165. Chapter 165

_A/N: I don't ever mean to upset anyone with my storylines_ _. I write out of boredom and hope. -csf_

* * *

 _ **third.**_

'My favourite thing about John is... the way he makes tea. Never get bored, watching him make me a cuppa. I could write a monography on John Watson making tea.'

I arch my eyebrows in surprise. _Thanks, mate._

I've been making use of 221B's kettle for ages now, to Sherlock's advantage too, and my flatmate never stopped appreciating a cuppa as a small token of a shared routine. Most people would take it for granted by now. It's also a non-sensitive disclosure that a regularly tactless detective has been careful about.

Or a covert complaint on the quality of the tea in this B&B. Probably both. _Sherlock multitasks._

'No, no', the young lady and employee of the B&B from the night before who now sits at our breakfast table shakes her head at once. 'Think of things John does that are not to serve you, or impress you.'

Sherlock frowns at once. 'I don't know, he retorts, oddly honest looking. 'I don't pay attention, if it doesn't concern me; why should I?'

I huff, amused. _That's Sherlock, alright._

 _Only I know it's not quite like that._

The detective protests: 'You mean to allude to his kindness, professionalism, obstinacy, or _tidiness_? I would hardly date him for the way he keeps our dishes washed and our meals cooked! That would be very deceptive of me, and John deserves better than someone like that, _I keep telling him_.'

'What?'

'Nothing. Alluding to his former girlfriends, again', Sherlock recovers his ground quickly.

'That's all in the past now, right?'

'According to _him_.'

'Sherlock...' she reproaches him softly, not unlike Mrs Hudson would do.

The B&B's young employee has come over with the excuse of bringing a fresh pot of tea, but has settled herself on the role of our Agony Aunt.

'And you, John, why don't you tell Sherlock how amazing you think he really is?'

At once, both Sherlock and I frown. That would be severely uncomfortable.

I often blurt out compliments, but I can't really help it at the time. Dissecting Sherlock's performance now, on request, lacks that spontaneous honesty he enjoys and makes me feel tremendously awkward.

'Seriously, John, when was the last time you complimented Sherlock?'

The detective himself answers, distant: 'Four weeks ago, third paragraph, fourth line.'

 _My blog?_ I'm surprised he reads still it. Never comments nowadays.

'Love letters? That's good. You should write each other another love letter today.'

'John's the writer, I don't quite—' Sherlock starts to protest when some commotion starts in the small B&B.

'Just do it!' she insists, well-meant, as we all get up and head towards the wailing woman at the reception desk. A tall brunette lady who sobs with a letter dangling from her fingers.

'He's been kidnapped!' She says, between sobs.

Sherlock and I glance at each other, sombrely.

 _ **.**_

'The kidnapper went for the clearly boring, functional romantic couple', Sherlock notices from bedroom 1's entrance. The inspector on the knowledge of our little act has smuggled us into the case at once.

I keep a look out by the door.

'You sound almost upset', Greg notices uncomfortably.

'Frankly, inspector, it would have been much easier if she had taken John as the correct kidnapped victim. We could be closing this case by now!'

Lestrade wonders: 'Why do you assume John would be the kidnappee, anyway?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'He nearly always is', the detective says, pragmatically. 'Besides, if a kidnapper ponders us both, I look to be the one with the bank account to move the funds. I kept telling John he needed to make more of an effort to be at my level as my boyfriend, but he just wouldn't listen.'

I squint. _Is that why you bought me new "undergarments"? Anyway, who calls it "undergarments" these days?_

Sherlock seems to be reading my mind easily, because he frowns disapprovingly.

'We argue too much, John, that's what drove the kidnapper away!'

'That she prefers traditional, boring couples?' I translate with exasperation. Sherlock smiles for the first time in a long while; a deep generous, only terribly misplaced, smile. _I've just admitted something here._

'She might prefer boring, I would never', he confides. 'Nor would you.'

Lestrade shakes his head. 'Save it for the bedroom, you two!'

We both stare his way. He amends: 'Where there are cameras, possibly. There aren't any here. We checked. She must have lifted them already. I suppose we must check for prints...'

Sherlock raises a blusher makeup brush and eyeshadow pallet he nicked from the open travel bag. Apparently he's already making due on those prints lifting. The inspector hands him the proper evidence collection pouches while muttering about having to explain why Arabian Nights blue and Cherry Passion pink were used to collect evidence. Sherlock just smirks.

I look on around the room, then head forward towards the bedside table. The inspector tries to cut me off, probably worrying about contamination of the scene, but in an instant Sherlock is grabbing his arm. My best friend has sensed I'm onto something, from across the room. As if he indeed reads my mind with ease.

'We're going at it old school...' I start. Greg is about to protest. Sherlock clasps viciously the hand he keeps on the inspector's bicep and Greg gasps instead. _Sherlock Holmes, the home grown detective that is always bigger than the room, will step back to give away the limelight only to me; if that isn't true respect..._

I focus on my idea. 'Sherlock, how did the kidnapper get the tall, burly guy, on that smartphone screensaver photo we saw, to leave the room without his phone or wallet? Surely not by force. A likely smaller statured woman would not easily coerce a rugby player sized man to do what she told him to.'

Greg quips: 'She could have had a gun, I suppose.' And Sherlock grasps hard his arm again for the interruption. Seeing I'm getting baffled, the consulting detective helps out:

'With a gun about, he wouldn't have taken his coat. Taking his coat but not his phone? That's a half followed automatism right there. It doesn't fit. Go on, John, you're going nicely.'

I frown at him, but he doesn't seem to be teasing me now.

'His coat had something he needed, his wallet. He needed ransom money out of the bank. As for the mobile phone, she instructed him not to call the police or his girlfriend would be harmed, so he left it untouched.'

'Go on.'

Greg squirms under Sherlock's tight grip.

'He would have taken his phone if he already had it in his hand. Another expected automatism there, Sherlock. Which means the message came either by person, but then there would have been witnesses on the corridor, or by the room's landline phone.'

'Doing great, John. Getting warmer by the minute!'

I turn sharply to look at my mate. 'You deduced this already, Sherlock.'

'As soon as you started talking about it, but please proceed. You must do justice to your idea now.'

'There's a man kidnapped and presumably in danger and you're letting me play Miss Marple?'

'Who's that?' _I lost him now._ 'Play whoever you want, John, but do hurry up. We've got a rescue to do.'

I sigh. 'The notepad by the phone. Where our guy took notes of where to go. She told him she had his girlfriend or some other desperate lie, and he believed it. He was panicking, scared, of course he took notes of how much he needed to hand over and where. Sherlock, can you do the classic detective thing with the pencil and the indentations left on the next page of the notebook?'

My friend is biting a proud smile, as he rolls his eyes without arrogance and mutters: 'If I must be so simple, John, I'll take care of that for you. Lestrade, call the man's bank, check for recent withdrawals, and have a car ready, we need a ride... John?'

I hand him the graphite pencil he knew I'd find in my pockets.

 _ **.**_

'What is this place?'

'Disused small power station', Sherlock reports what is before our eyes. 'Used to feed the railway platform nearby.' As if on cue, a high speed cargo train echoes in the tracks behind the two stories high concrete bunker building, with the broken windows and several cracks on the structural walls.

'Not in use anymore. Trains don't stop here anymore, and there's no one around for miles.'

We're in agricultural fields, sown for rape seed not yet in bloom. The nearest farms are about a mile away, and but for the train track we'd have no reference point. Then again, neither would have had the kidnapped man, willingly coming to his trap, believing his fiancée was held captive.

Nice double play. Definitely upping the stakes of the game. Double ransom to be earned, the victim willingly turning himself in, believing it must be true because he couldn't find his wife and there had been an actual inspector forewarning every couple in the B&B.

'This makes for a nice change', Sherlock comments.

'What?'

'That you didn't get kidnapped, John!'

I chuckle at that, and haste to follow the genius already moving forward.

The door to the derelict building is left ajar, for the simple reason that the whole structure is in risk of imminent collapse. The door wouldn't fit the crooked frame anymore. There are deep cracks on the walls and a faded KEEP OUT sign on every wall, accompanied by a few legal notices of a condemned structure, left to rot in the countryside.

'Is it safe?' I wonder.

'No.'

'Then let's hurry inside, by all means.'

There's almost a poetic beauty in the damp stained, hollow entrance, reclaimed by hardy brambles. Sherlock follows the stairs immediately, I readily shadow him.

There are a couple of rooms on the upper floor, we rush into the closest one, just as we can hear a train rushing by at the back.

The structure rumbles again, all around us. Ominous cracks spread before our eyes in the plastered walls.

I hurry towards the man collapsed on a standard wheelchair in the middle of an empty room. It's not safe in here, not for long. I check his pulse and breathing, Sherlock is already untying him.

'I think he's been drugged, heavily narcotised. He won't be of much assistance in getting him out of here.'

Sherlock sets him free at last and he collapses forward, listless like a sack of potatoes. Sherlock and I just about manage to catch him before he breaks his nose on the concrete floor.

That's when I notice them. Electrical wires running the room. 'She's somewhere nearby, Sherlock!' I hiss. 'She's watching us through a live feed from a nearby room!'

Sherlock shrugs, not bothered by the indiscrete big brother camera. _He's got desensitized by repeated exposure, I assume. He's got Mycroft to thank for that._

An ominous growl from the building itself and new cracks crisscross the outer walls before our eyes. The floorboards creak in unisson, ready to crack.

Sherlock hisses, as he speeds up his hurried moves. 'Then tell her to leave the building. It's going to collapse! The game is over and we won!'

I vaguely look about, trying to get the unresponsive sack of potatoes from the chair. 'Don't think she's tuned in.' I end up dumping him back on the wheelchair. It's not as dignified, but it will do to rescue his life. 'Sherlock, get him out of here. I'll get her!'

He shakes his head at once. 'It's too dangerous, John!'

'There's enough time, just enough time, trust me!'

He looks at me with very troubled green irises, trembling as they take in my resolution and the need for us to do the right thing. 'I'm coming back for you if you're not out there 60 seconds after me, John!'

I nod. I know he is. I'd do the exact same.

'Go now!'

'We can still swap', he tries to stop me.

'Sorry', I smirk, 'I called it first!' And I rush out of the grimy room, following those black cables strewn about.

 _ **.**_

At the next room those cables shoot out of a broken glass window. _Of course they do._ I clear a smudge of that remaining glass to see where the cables lead. Down. One floor under they worm their way back in. I groan under my breath. Not much time left on this silly cat and mouse chase.

Somewhere in the distance a train whistle blows as it speeds through a blind curve, getting closer by the second. Whatever modifications our criminal made to the derelict building and the constant assault of trepidation from the train tracks are joining efforts in its destruction.

I sprint out of the room, down the corridor and into the stairwell before _all hell breaks loose._

 _...Sherlock!_

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


	166. Chapter 166

_A/N: Last one for this plotline. Still working on what is coming next. -csf_

* * *

 _ **fourth.**_

Time finally slows down and I find myself in a sea of rubble and debris. The building is quiet for now, but hardly stable, and I can only guess when the next cargo train is due to go past us, further destabilising the crumbling remnants of a condemned building.

 _Sherlock_.

I hope Sherlock made it out okay.

Suddenly my phone rings and I almost jump off my skin. I pick up the call with blurry vision, not really sure who is calling me.

'Hey.'

' _John!'_

'Sher... lock?'

' _John, I'm coming in for you!'_

'Wait. I can... get out. I think. Not safe.'

' _John, I'm—'_

The call gets disconnected and I suspiciously eye my battered phone. Could be just bad reception. Not enough battery. I really need to get going. Sherlock won't have me staying in a dangerously close to total collapse building.

Holding onto the remnants of stairs I used for cover, I get up slowly, carefully. Most of my body protests, sore, but nothing screams broken bones or internal injuries. Got lucky.

'Hold it right there!' a sharp voice commands. I turn slowly, holding my head.

 _Yeah, I had forgotten the kidnapper._

'Hi. My turn to buy you a drink, huh?'

 _ **.**_

'What are you doing here, John?'

I hold my head and try to think my way out of this one. It'd be really easy if it weren't for the gun she's pointing at me. That's a bit rude.

'Sightseeing. I'll be going now. Nice seeing you.'

She won't fall for that, cutting me off by moving swiftly over the debris. 'Are you with the police?'

I frown. 'No! I came on holiday with Sherlock, you met Sherlock–'

'Oh, please!' she scoffs. 'You two are the most unlikely couple I've ever seen.'

I feel taken aback. 'You should see the stuff he keeps in our fridge! Who would ever put up with that but me?'

She caresses the gun with a no-nonsense look. I shut up, obligingly. But hurt. Sherlock and I were believable. Too believable, if anything. Search all of London and you won't find someone who knows Sherlock Holmes more intimately. Except perhaps for his big brother. He's got eyes on Sherlock at all times. It's as if he didn't really trust his baby brother.

Anyway, Sherlock is inscrutable, a veritable enigma. It's not like I had any advantages in the farce.

So maybe I don't know his favourite colour or how old was he when he had his first crush. The git will probably know all that about me, though, even if I never told him...

Well, in my defence, it's really hard dating Sherlock Holmes!

'So, are you a policeman?' she gathers, eyeing me with suspicion.

'No.'

'You stand like one.'

I uncross my arms and make sure to relax my stance. 'Former military, actually. Old habits die hard.'

Slowly she takes a few aimless steps, coming around me. Cornering me. Eyeing me like I'm her prey.

'Is Sherlock with the police?'

I shake my head and plead: 'Don't even ask him that, you'll just get him started...'

'Then why were you two after me?' she asks, raising her gun to watch me in line with her extended arm. From a close range, there's no way she'll miss the shot.

That's when I notice the sound and trepidation building up in a steady crescendo. A train is about to pass again. Time has a knack for running short today. I warn her: 'It's not safe in here. We need to get outside. You can take your damned gun with you, but we need to leave _now_.'

She sniggers. 'Did you really think I would fall for that one?'

The train whistles loudly. Some mortar falls from the cracked ceiling over our heads.

'Yes, I hoped so. Being the truth and all', I still retort, looking furtively around the room. Two ground windows, both with the glass smashed. Not enough time to cross the room and jump without a distraction. And even then, the falling debris from the calamitous structure might still collapse on me. Don't really have a choice, do I? Apart from left or right? One window on each wall, fairly distant from each other. No idea which side will be safer once out there by a collapsing building.

 _Please don't come in, Sherlock._

 _Let me jump out of here._

 _Left or right?_

'The train. We need to go now. Outside', I insist, in a commanding tone.

She doesn't take it kindly. Sensing a trap she sniggers. Getting distracted. The train whistles again. I take my chance.

In a swift move I tackle the petite woman and hurl us both through the left hand side window, out to the sunlit exterior. I let go of her as we collide on the hard ground with impact. Before I can collect my breath two powerful hands grip me by my jacket and pull me away. In the confusion that follows I can only catch glimpses of concrete and rough ironwork pieces dropping heavily from the crumbling structure. Sherlock keeps pulling me, dragging me over the ground, to safe distance, before stopping breathless. We both look back to the cloud of unsettled smoke.

The train whistles faintly as it curves out of sight faithfully following the tracks, impervious to the destruction left in its wake.

Sherlock and I straighten up at once, hurrying back to the injured criminal. She gasps on the ground, her leg pinned down by a sizeable chunk of ceiling or floor. My friend grabs the unattended gun, I start assessing her vitals and responsiveness, trying to prevent her from going into shock.

'Sherlock, one thing. Just one thing, mate...'

He glances at me attentively as he follows my instructions to keep pressure on the wound.

'There were two windows in that room. Two windows. One on the left and one on the right. Now, how did you know which one I'd choose?'

He smiles softly. 'Telepathy, John.'

'No, seriously! How did you know?' I insist.

He orders his thoughts and recollection for a couple of seconds. 'I was faced with the same 50-50 choice on the outside, John. I knew there was no time to go inside, all I could do was hope you'd escape through one of those windows.'

'How did you choose?'

'Easy. I though which one would _you_ choose, John.'

'And how did you know I would choose that one?' I insist.

He shrugs. 'I'm not sure. We spend too much time together?' he points out. 'Honestly, John, intuition is nothing but a subconscious collection of micro indicators that allow for the construction of a hypothesis of future behaviour on someone you know well, derived from—'

I stop listening at some point, stunned by the accuracy of Sherlock's knowledge of _me_.

 _ **.**_

It's late at night when we find ourselves back at 221B. The scent of tea drifts through the air as I get two twin mugs ready. Sherlock himself has wandered off to his armchair with his violin and a contented sigh, where he now checks up on his most beloved possession with precise care.

 _He missed this. Home. And us._

No more feigning something we're not, for the sake of onlookers. If we are a couple – not saying we are or we aren't; we're definitely _two of something_ , I just don't have a label for what we are – then this is our true life together. A tea scent drifting through the air every evening, and violin strings played brilliantly by virtuous hands. Small banter and shooting the walls. Laughter from friends and tears from upset clients. Running about London and returning exhausted but victorious to a small cluttered flat we call home.

'Thank you, John', Sherlock says, without looking at me or the warm cup I just put on the tableside.

I nod, acknowledging I heard him, as I drift over to my own chair.

Sherlock lowers his bow and looks on steadily all of a sudden. 'Was that... alright? Should I have elaborated on you, or the quality of the tea?' He points to the mug with his bow.

I blink. 'Twas fine, mate.'

'Because I could smell the tea leaves, scorched at the exact temperature as always, John. I haven't tasted it yet and it already elicits an anticipation of pleasure.'

'Seriously. Saying _Thanks_ is more than enough', I reply stiffly.

'That woman seemed to imply I didn't compliment your tea making abilities. That I took them for granted.' He sneaks a hand to grab the mug and slowly takes a pleasured sip. 'She wasn't all wrong, you know. I do expect your tea to always be perfect. It's the scientific method, John! Results are reproducible every time. You have', he smirks now, 'perfected tea making into an art form.'

I chuckle. 'Thanks.' _I suppose._ 'You're taking advise from a woman who specialised in kidnapping within romantic couples.'

Sherlock shrugs. 'She saw right through us.'

I shake my head and laugh. 'No, she didn't! She just took a shine at us. Or maybe we were next.'

'Maybe', he reluctantly admits.

I shift in my chair. 'She also said I don't compliment you enough.'

Sherlock smirks warmly. 'Yes, you do. With every inch of your expressive eyes widening brightly while I deduce aloud, or in the way your melodic voice goes higher when I solve a case in a theatrical plot twist. You, John, have incredibly rich dialogues while silent. It's not my fault the rest of London is too daft to see what is so obvious to me...'

I hide a small smile of my own. 'Would you like me to compliment you vocally some more at the crime scenes, for instance?'

He shrugs. 'I get to read it all on your blog. Speaking of which you have left it severely unattended these past few days, John.'

'Yes. Haven't written in a while, have I?' My eyes dart sideways towards my laptop, left at the table by my flatmate on some new random kleptomaniac spree.

Sherlock again lowers his eyes to his rosin and bow, humming softly under his breath some familiar tune of his own creation. Heard it often, as we bask in the aftermath of another case.

 _Maybe it's inspired by tea_ , I ponder as I collect my laptop to type down our latest adventure.

 _ **.**_

A couple of hours later I'm dozing off in front of the warm fireplace with the open laptop skidding from my lap, when casual conversation snaps me back awake. I clear my throat, narrow my eyes in the bright room, look about – and, sure enough, DI Lestrade is here, visiting us.

Sherlock and Greg are keeping up a conversation of their own, the home detective with his hands buried deep in his dressing gown's pockets and the homonymous visitor is looking grave and professional.

'John's awake now, he'll be pleased to hear your news', Sherlock states in one breath without even turning.

'That the woman who tried to kill him is stable in hospital and expected to make full recovery?' Greg points out.

'John did ensure she remained alive with his immediate medical care, after all. And her kidnapped victim, the man unconscious in the wheelchair?'

'Giving his statement at the Yard as we speak.'

'Good.'

'So, huh, case closed', the inspector underlines. 'How was it for you, Sherlock? Having John pretending to be your husband?'

Getting up from my chair I hear Sherlock correct naturally: 'Boyfriend, John never consented to marry me.'

'And you, John? How hard was it to date Sherlock?'

I shrug. 'I should be so lucky', I return with a sleep scratched voice. 'All the ladies at the B&B had an eye on Sherlock...'

The desirable bachelor in question rolls his eyes at the thought and moves away to take his violin again. His way of claiming the end of the social call, I assume. Still, I ask Greg in confidence:

'Now, Greg, who won the Yard's betting pool?'

The old inspector smiles wickedly. 'I had every faith you two could pull the deception. And I wasn't the only one. In fact I'm here to pay dues. Mrs Hudson is waiting downstairs. I believe she's waiting for this dosh to take with her to Blackpool with the girls.' The inspector's smile widens, if possible. 'Yes, she was quite sure Sherlock could pull this off, so long as he was paired up with you, John. She said he wouldn't sleep with anyone else present in the room, you were the only exception, and that our boy Sherlock wouldn't feel comfortable displaying emotions with anyone else... I wish I heard her advice. I took the bet going on with Manchester United instead, and lost.'

'Better luck next time...' Then I think of something. 'Huh, Sherlock, "honey", if this criminal lady strikes again, do you think your brother might consider doing some undercover work with someone at the Yard?'

The younger detective chuckles. 'Mycroft despises the very notion of romantic entanglement, so much so that he'd willingly start a war between three different continents just to avoid showing he lacks the basic requirements to keep up such a farce. No, I'm afraid it'd be up to us again, John. I do hope you'd consider better undergarments this time.'

Greg sniggers, beyond his willpower to stop himself.

How old fashioned can he get? 'No one uses "undergarments" anymore, Sherlock!'

He hums. 'Yet again you surprise me, John. But if you find it comfortable, I suppose I'm amenable.'

 _What the—_

Greg stops chuckling just long enough to assure me: 'He's pulling you on, mate!'

I turn to Sherlock but my anger dissipates at his good hearty chuckles.

'Just drop it, John. I have it on good authority you like me just the way I am.'

I shake my head, giggling along.

That's for me to know, and you to have deduced.

 _ **.**_


	167. Chapter 167

_A/N: Let's just call this one a pointless one-off. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

Sherlock runs towards us, with a slight gaunt expression, shallow breaths and quick pounding steps. Suddenly I realise what it must look like to him. There's a bloodied body on the floor, and I'm fallen too. Sherlock is understandably frightened.

I turn my head and nod briskly to let him know I'm still in control here. I'm doctoring now, we can address our own shocks later.

I look down—

—and everything starts going wrong.

There's blood everywhere, gushing out, spilling lost lives to sandy grounds. The smell of decay hits me pungently. I shiver from head to toe, cold sweat breaking out from every pore.

'Stop!' I shout forcefully at the approaching detective. 'Oh, shit...' I groan, stepping away from the dying man. I start to get up but my balance is compromised, I stumble and hit the ground hard.

'John?' There's panic underlying Sherlock's unsteady voice.

I turn to the detective, _I'm so tired now,_ and groan: 'Why didn't I put on gloves?'

Sherlock blinks, utterly blank, until his face transforms into a concerned stricken expression.

Sociopath, he's not.

'An hallucinogenic, dermally absorbed. It's transferred onto you, John... _John_?' but Sherlock doesn't get it, how could he?

Voice chocked, I strangle out the admission: 'Feels like a panic attack. Gosh, no, not one of those again...'

'Hard to treat?'

Sherlock is still trying to understand, to piece it together. My friend is a great help and a steady presence, but he can't really get, he can't understand, what it is really like for me. I'm the doctor here. Sherlock doesn't get it and he couldn't know, there was a time after the war when their shadow was a constant presence.

I groan. Shouldn't have thought of the past. The war is not a good place to revisit for a messed up veteran.

Sherlock is stuck in that big head of his, probably revising any statistics he read on a medical journal about panic attacks in former military personnel. Post traumatic stress disorder is underlined several times.

This one's on me. I need to get a grip. _Get off the floor, you miserable sod, get up, pull yourself together, do your job!_

Grinding my teeth I attempt to stand up – by now ignoring the sound of the gunfire blasting off around me, the cries of pain and the echoes of senseless violence.

Shaking hands search for a pulse in the contaminated skin of our former client. All I can feel is my own blood rush to the head, the reality coming in and out of focus, as if it could all be but a grotesque pantomime of sorts. My cold fingers tingle and register little contact so I dig deep over the neck artery, desperate for that rhythm of life.

I'm yanked back forcefully, and almost hit the ground with my back. Sherlock is looking wildly at me, while dragging me away from the patient. I shiver as I realise he's touching me, he's getting poisoned by his contact with me. I feel sick to my stomach, that I could unwillingly do this to him. Ashamed, dirty, horrible.

Sherlock's usually measured voice is steadily rising. Hands on my shoulders he shakes me now, as if his words were of the utmost importance. I try to focus, as per his stereo shouted request, drifting loudly from afar.

'Gloves, John, I'm okay! Stop it! Just drop it, John!'

I frown, shocked. I didn't realise I was desperately pushing him away from me, hands on his clothes, they should be enough of a barrier of protection. Maybe there's still hope. Maybe I'm not as damned as I feel, if I still automatically try to protect Sherlock. There is still some good in me.

Or was I just trying to get him away from me?

Sherlock has put on his posh leather gloves. Not a perfect protection, but he'll risk it for his flatmate. He won't let go of me, now has got a handle on my shaking form.

I let go of a small whimper and stop trashing about. I can't stop trembling, though. That is beyond my control. My back is sweaty against the cold wall. The room is swaying before my eyes. I can feel bile in my mouth, my ears ringing and my movements are as disoriented as my thoughts.

 _Nice one you got yourself into, John!_

 _Shut up, John!_

 _Or else, what?_

 _Sherlock might leave. If he gets it, how damaged you are, he'll leave for sure._

 _You want that to happen, deep down. On your terms. Before he leaves you again; you better leave, John._

'John, can you hear me? You've gone funnily quiet but your eyes are darting all around like some frightened wild creature. Talk to me, please, don't hide inside your mind.'

The war theatre recedes, the certain shame that Sherlock will see how damaged I am comes to the forefront, doomsday like.

''m sorry, Shrrl.'

Intense green eyes focussed on me, he strongly assures me: 'You mustn't ever feel like you need to apologise to me, John.'

He takes those strong, leather covered hands to each side of my head and lowers his forehead close to mine. He avoids touching me in the last millimetre but I can feel the warmth of his skin over my cold and clammy one. Letting me know he's not repulsed by me.

'How's it going inside your head?' he asks, almost conversationally, as one would ask phoning a friend on vacation.

 _You don't want to know, Sherlock._

'I'm hyper... hyperventilating... might pass out.'

He seems outraged at that. 'You will do no such thing, John!'

The room is turning impossibly dark, and it feels like he is the one holding me up now, so I'd say I am doing such a thing. I wish Sherlock would listen better sometimes. I hope he won't panic on me.

I just need... a rest.

The world turns pitch black as Sherlock calls my name.

 _ **.**_

I look around, finding myself in some brightly lit room, foreign to me.

'How many fingers am I holding up?'

I harness my attention to Sherlock Holmes, holding a splayed open hand next to me. 'That's not how you're meant to do it, Sherlock.'

'He's fine', Sherlock confides to someone else in the room, casually. I look on over. _Not fine at all._

I can't be _here_. This is an hallucination. All in my head. What's wrong with me? _I am not in Afghanistan!_

'What is it, John? Your heart and breathing rates have picked up substantially. What's going on, can you tell me?'

I blink. Once. Twice. The surroundings don't change. But this can't be true. I know this isn't true. Sherlock doesn't belong here. _Sherlock comes after the war._

'Mrs Hudson, leave! John, talk to me, please. Whatever is the matter? You may confide in me.'

I reach over to grab his forearm. He allows it. He feels warm, tense, alive, real. _Good, that means Sherlock is not the hallucination, the desert is._ Given the choice, I'm glad.

'Sherlock, where are we?' I ask him in a scared whisper.

He flinches, I can sense it. 'Your room, Baker Street, London, United Kingdom... Earth. John, which one of these feels incorrect to you?'

'Huh... All of the above. No, I mean, it's definitely Earth.'

In Sherlock's defence, this time he doesn't flinch.

'Right. Any sounds or smells accompanying your visual delusion, John?'

'Not sure. Too soon to tell, I think.'

'Can you describe to me what you are seeing?'

I shake my head, in a slight panic. 'You first. I want to believe you.'

He takes a moment to reply. 'Of course, John. And I should warn you that you are experiencing side effects from your contamination at the crime scene. There's no reason to believe it will be long lasting in any way. Just residual effects throwing your prefrontal cortex into disarray. Nothing to worry about. Your synapses will sort themselves out soon enough. Meanwhile, I won't leave your side.'

'Good to know.'

His grey eyes narrow. 'John, what new input are you seeing?'

I fake a sketchy smile. 'Sherlock, I think we're lost in the desert.'

'Oh. That's alright, John. You're perfectly safe. I see only your room, as you left it this morning. Do you remember your room from this morning?' I nod briefly. 'I can also inform you that you have a lost striped sock under your bed. It seems to be the one you complained the washing machine must have _swallowed_ last week. One must assume the washing machine regurgitated surreptitiously, only to have the further pleasure of washing it again.'

I nod, and settle back on my pillows. I'm trying hard to believe these are my pillows. If only I keep my eyes closed and Sherlock nearby to assure me I'm in my room, maybe it will all be gone before long. All the explosions not far away, the blasted sand getting on my mouth and eyes, the scorching heatwave.

I grab on to Sherlock's hand, feels life a lifeline to me.

'John, we should get you to a doctor. '

No shit. Took him long enough to think of that. Only I won't go anywhere willingly.

'No, please.'

'At least I need to know what poison is circulating in your veins, John. You may need better care than I'm equipped to give.'

I force myself to let go of his hand, I've been holding too long.

'I trust you, Sherlock, more than anyone else', I state with all the dignity I can muster.

'John, please—'

'Sherlock, it's got to be you. You're the only one I trust.'

He takes a couple of seconds but won't falter. 'Alright, John, if you insist.'

Still a bit stiff, but wellmeant. He doesn't seem to know he's a natural at this caring lark. He just stands in his own way. At a time all is falling apart for me, Sherlock has called on his great rational gifts to offer me help. He's got it wrong. What I need is his steadfast support. I'll need it before this day is done.

 _ **.**_

'How did the victim at the crime scene die, Sherlock?'

'Suspected heart attack.'

 _Oh._ 'Glad you were there with me.'

From hovering over his microscope at my writing desk, Sherlock glances my way.

'You often attribute miraculous abilities to my skills set, John, but I assure you I am not some anti heart attack remedy... If you want to know what is muddying your perception, I've used a board pen to draw the stereochemistry of the compound on your wallpaper, above the chest of drawers. You had a very convenient empty space just there. If Mrs Hudson asks, it's wall art, of course.'

Sherlock respects no property, I recall.

'I will take your word for it, mate.'

He glances briskly my way, as if he could have forgotten I'm lost in the wars of my mind, still unsure which one of the two overlapping realities in the universally accepted one.

Softening his gaze, as if Sherlock thought this time I wouldn't register his worry, the detective conversationally asks away:

'How's the war going?'

'We're winning, or so they keep telling us. Doesn't feel much like it.'

Sherlock halts all research, baffled.

'John, I'm amazed at your calm response to this distressing predicament.'

'Well, it's not the first time, is it? This time is just lasting longer, innit?'

Sherlock stops arguing at that point, and starts concentrating hard on his microscope slides.

He's taking it personally now; that my rationality could deceive me in such a way.

 _ **.**_

I must have fallen asleep, comforted by Sherlock's presence, much akin to a guardian angel, keeping me safe. As I come back to, Sherlock is not in the room. But this is my room in Baker Street again. Good progress, it seems.

'Sherlock?' I'm not too ashamed to call out, desperate to hear back from my friend. 'Sherlock?'

'Just here, John.'

I almost jump off my skin. Sherlock is suddenly here – quick summoning! – but his outfit is all wrong. The clothes fit alright, so he's definitely not wearing _my_ military fatigues.

Groaning inwardly, I realise this is not over yet. My broken mind is still piecing together impossible puzzle of my life.

'What is it, John?' his concern is voiced at once. I shake my head, don't want to tell him. I roll on over in bed and try to fall asleep again, insisting on keeping my visions a secret this time, no matter how much he worries and calls my name.

 _ **.**_

Next time I wake up all is quiet about me. No enemies, patrols or even a hint of sand. The breeze wavers through the window open slightly and my room is peaceful and silent. I leg go of a long breath of air I didn't recognise I was holding in.

Sherlock eyes me attentively. 'John?' he asks, 'is everything back to normal, then?'

He must have read it, in me, the immense feeling of relief, the weight that has been lifted if my shoulders.

'Seems so', I state, hesitantly. _Don't want to jinx it._

Sherlock looks like his old self again, to the exception of appearing worn out. I'm touched for his concern over me, the effort he has put to investigating the poison I absorbed through my skin, and the reliable presence by my side.

 _I slept through a war because I knew Sherlock was here._

My friend looks over to his wristwatch in his best nurse impersonation. 'Good. It's been textbook, really. All the poison must now be clear out of your system.'

Yeah, I've been sweating buckets. Looking down with disgust at the wrinkled, mussed up, bedsheets, I decide it's time to call it a day – or night – and get up, get a shower, leave unwanted past memories behind.

'Please don't go yet', Sherlock says very quickly, as a child confessing some mischief.

'What is it, what did you do?' Instantly I'm worrying over the worst. _Did he too get contaminated by the same poison?_ I worry.

'There's something I need to tell you. It's just— Never mind, John.'

'What?' I ask, knowing on instinct it's too late. Whatever Sherlock meant to say, he's chicken out. Which is quite odd. I don't recall Sherlock ever being... afraid of anything, really. Much in the least of saying the wrong thing. My best friend is intrepid, adventurous, courageous and sports a good dash of crazy. What on earth could have intimidated him to silence?

'I said "never mind", John.'

'You always say I never pay attention too. So, go on, out with it! Take advantage of the fact that I'm all here now!' I smirk. Can't imagine how lonely and frightening it must have been to the genius, playing piggy in the middle between his flatmate and the alternative reality only I could grasp.

'That's it, John', he replies, sheepishly, venturing forth. 'There are times I forget how brave you are.'

'Brave? For what?' I shake my head. I'm not following.

'For having weathered a war.'

I shake my head. 'I survived it, that is all. And not a lot of merit there that isn't also due to the ones of us who didn't survive it.'

Sherlock's eyes are deep and pondering as he fixated on me. On the back of my mind I can imagine I look gaunt, drained, exhausted, _scared_. Yet the consulting detective insists:

'I'm glad you're home now.'

'Me too, Sherlock. Me too.'

He finally accepts me getting up, and comes to help me along. I feel his bare fingers on my forearms, sharing my load, and shiver without control.

'It's alright, John. You never had more than residual levels of poison in you, that were transmitted from the victim at the crime scene. Luckily it proved non fatal.'

'Tell me about it...' I mutter, a bit snarky. Sherlock knows better then to take me to heart.

'John, what _did_ you see that last time?' he asks me, curiously.

I take a deep breath, we're reaching the landing.

'I saw a good man dragged into a nightmare', I state, cryptically. Still not up for a full disclosure.

'Ah', Sherlock comments. 'The same as me, then.'

I do a double take on my friend, pondering his words. He just smiles softly.

 _ **.**_


	168. Chapter 168

_A/N: Yeah, well, no excuse, really. And don't go telling me no British person would speak like my disposable OC [Other Character]. I can provide a long (redacted!) list of names of British people who do, and my character is but a mashup of them. Please, let's just pretend my Sherlock speaks proper English, by contrast; otherwise the whole gimmick doesn't work. -csf_

* * *

 _ **1st.**_

'But ya know I didn do it, mister'olmes! You gotta tell'em I wouldn do no'arm!'

Sherlock Holmes huffs. 'Perhaps you'd do no harm on purpose, but you're certainly torturing a language right now. I'd say English, but at times I'm not entirely sure...' he laments, coldly. Then the consulting detective takes one quick calculating glance at his audience – there's the pleading boxer, DI Lestrade and two officers on the beat standing up, besides me in the armchair – before keeping up his act of distance and disdain. 'You will, however, allow me to do my job, so as to ascertain your innocence beyond reasonable doubt?'

The simple man scrunches his face in confusion. Sherlock rolls his eyes and, with a sudden incredible burst of patience and kindness, translates in a close whisper: 'Just let me get on with it, Jones!'

The bewildered man with the battered swollen ear and shirt full of blood nods dumbly. He's got full confidence in "Mister Holmes", the charismatic detective from Baker Street he's known through Sherlock's homeless network. He further smiles at me; he knows me too, as a doctor, and I've patched him up after a number of unsuccessful illegal cage fights. I keep telling him he needs to find himself a better living. He tells me that without education no one will hire him for a regular job. It's not right either, for he's an extremely talented cook, a reasonable removals man, and a terrible plasterer.

What has "Jones the bulldog" been up to now?

Sherlock paces 221B's living room quietly with his fingers together, parked against his chin, before he asks: 'Shall we start with these officers of the law, Lestrade?'

The DI is looking tired now. He summarises, as if to a jury: 'My men have found Jones, not even an hour ago. Passed out on his own vomit and sweat, on an alley. As they are nice people, they went to check he wasn't some stiff, killed and dumped by the rail tracks. It has happened, you know.'

'Yes, I'm aware. I read all the tabloids and receive all your cold cases. Do hurry up, inspector.'

'Well, when my men went to rouse him, they found his clothes covered in blood. And none was his own. Got no real injuries on him to account for all the blood. For all the bruises he's got, most of them are a couple of days old and healing well.'

Sherlock glances at me, silently swallowing the compliment he would never have given the inspector's good detective work, much in the least in front of the officers.

Unaware of this shared train of thought, Lestrade continues his reporting: 'Jones has been repeating your name, left and right. Demanded to be seen by you. Said you'd prove him innocent, Sherlock.'

The boxer pleads in, uncontained: 'I was doing my thing, mister'olmes. That's how I got them blood on me clothes!'

Sherlock raises an imperious silencing hand in the air.

'I take it you didn't win this fight, Jones.'

The boxer smiles in pride. 'No, I was to throw this spar. I let'im win. That were the deal.'

Sherlock turns to Lestrade. 'This man's agent – if indeed you can call a mercenary that', he glances at the extent of Jones's non-bleeding injuries, 'will never be found by the police, but you should have plenty of witnesses with a thirst for crude violence in the gambling crowd. Surely you'll find them all returned again tonight for another improbable match... Tell me, Jones, who did you fight last night?'

The boxer mumbles: 'A bulldog. I mean a real one too.'

We all do a double take.

'It pounced me on my belly and it won, fair'n'square. I wouldn't harm an animal anyways. I do naught of the sort. Why, I wouldn't harm a fly!'

Lestrade quips in at this point: 'That's alright, I suppose', and he frowns at his own words, 'but that doesn't explain the blood on Jones's clothes. I bet you the lab will determine it's human. Preliminary analysis results from our field kits have already identified blood type B.'

Sherlock looks back at the boxer. He mumbles to his buttons: 'That'd be me woman's. I dunno her blood type, tho.'

The twin officers step forward. I jump from my chair and interpose myself between them and the man-child boxer. 'Did you just say you hurt your _woman_?' I ask. I'll be the first in line if it's true, but it doesn't fit with the Jones I know.

His eyebrows shoot up revealing big baby blue eyes. 'I wouldn't never, doc!'

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Double negatives, how terribly self-detrimental.'

I insist: 'Then how could you possibly get her blood on you?'

'She got on with them wrong crowd, doc. Them no good to'er. Last night she got beaten badly coz what she viewed and all. She came'ome full of blood. I hug her, with these arms of mine. She was trembling, alright. That must be how it got on me clothes.'

Sherlock notices: 'It had to be a lot of blood, very fresh.'

'That it were', he nods.

'But you didn't ask for help, for your _woman-friend_. No hospital.'

'You know I don't like'em!' Jones shouts at once. He's a short-tempered man. Sherlock is not impressed; he knows how to handle them. _Us._

'You didn't get doctor John either.'

The boxer squirms. 'So maybe it weren't all'ers neither.'

Lestrade rubs his eyes tiredly. 'Whose blood was it, Jones?'

The boxer gulps. 'Mister'olmes, I need you to believe me! She didn't do no harm!'

Sherlock flops on his armchair, disengaged. 'Why would I believe you, Jones?'

The boxer's eyes glint at that, a cunning glint of a man who knows self-preservation well.

'Coz if ya do, I can tell ya where Jim Moriarty's body is, six foot under and all.'

Silence fills 221B, as clear as the ringing in my ears. I could beat the crap out this unfortunate man myself, all of a sudden. If he knows _that_ , if he's been holding out on us—

Lestrade just holds out an outstretched arm right in front of me. My face must be murderous in the defence of our friend. The inspector does nothing more to hold me back, he knows he needn't. Suddenly he's the only calm person in the room. Even his officers are jittery at the mention of Jim Moriarty. Lestrade rubs the stubble gathering at his jaw now, looking old and tired as we watches attentively the younger detective.

The fate of Jim Moriarty, the most dangerous menace over England yet and Sherlock Holmes' private archenemy, whose body was never found and some still conspire to say is alive, is apparently known to a back alleys cage fighter.

Sherlock reacts first. 'Book him in, Lestrade. You've got my blessing. Your suspect and I have a lot to talk about, it seems. The state jail makes for a charming rendezvous.'

'But mister'olmes!' Jones protests, doubling his cries.

 _ **.**_

'I must take Jones' case, John, and coax the intel out of him', the detective reflects as he paces 221B's living room.

'What if it's a trap?' I refute. Sherlock stops short and gives me a pitiful look. I correct: 'Fine, it doesn't seem like something Jones would mastermind on his own, but maybe he's being played. That seems easy enough!'

The consulting detective is working hard to keep his cool. He keeps pacing the room for short distances, then turning abruptly to move elsewhere. In fact, only half of that big head of his even seems to be engaged in conversation with me, right now. I guess I should be flattered that Sherlock hasn't fully regressed into his mind palace at the first mention of Moriarty.

I proceed: 'And if we do find Moriarty's body? What then? Will you lay your search to rest?'

Sherlock's eyes narrow. 'Naturally, John.'

'And I'll never hear of Moriarty again?'

'Of course not... Only of the re-emerging remnants of his web of evil.'

I sigh and drop on my armchair. _It's endless. The criminal mastermind's greatest legacy is the long shadow he's cast in his wake._

Sherlock came back. Sherlock defeated Moriarty, went on prolonged holidays and reappeared one day. Couldn't we leave it as simple as that?

'John...'

The detective calls my name with some lamenting undertone. _He too wished it could be that easy._ This, he feels, is his calling. To rid the world of an abject evil, the likes of which the world has only barely perceived and Sherlock hopes it never has to relive such dangerous threat.

Also, deep down Sherlock really misses Jim Moriarty as a plain field player in the intellectual matters, if an opposite morally.

And as for me, my job is to be here for Sherlock. He will need me before this fight is done.

I get up, and grab my jacket from the back of the armchair.

'Coming?' I call out.

 _ **.**_

Lestrade got us a cold and sterile interrogation room to meet up with Jones. I glance at the mirror in front of me and frown. The inspector is sure to be looking in on the one way glass, maybe even recording the session, but Greg has purposefully placed our two chairs on the side usually relegated to the suspect. It tells me Greg is watching Sherlock Holmes more attentively than he has his eyes on Jones.

I sniff and find a comfortable seat. By my side the consulting detective seemed to have been waiting for me to settle in, as he leans forward to demand of the boxer:

'Tell me all, tell me quick, leave nothing out, Jones.'

He nods. 'I had a fight—'

'Yes, one glance at your clothes and the way your hair is tousled and I know how it went and that your story is true. Skip that. In your best English, tell me about your friend.'

'My friend?' he scrunched his face before realising: 'You mean my woman?' And he smiles, like an idiot in love.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Just what I said, call her what you will.'

'We're not married, ya know, but she's a proper lady, not like those ya see that take advantage of a man just coz they used to get on with a big shot club owner. Well, I suppose she still does. But she loves me and not'im. She's afraid to leave him coz of his violent.'

'English.'

'O'right. Hm, she's good to me. She can't cook an egg but that's o'right.'

'Tonight—'

'She came back for the keys. At the club. She heard some noise. He was there. He killed someone. He had a knife. She went inside the office. He slapped her and told her to keep a secret. When he left she went to see if the guy was alive. That's all. That's his blood. Same as hers I suppose, on her clothes and on mine. Now they think I killed someone.'

'You helped dispose of the body.'

'She was afraid. She asked for help. Wouldn't you do the same for your woman?'

I notice Sherlock glances at me. I guess his reasoning is that he's got no woman ( _The_ _Woman_ is long gone, thank you) and he'd dispose of a body for me. I assume Sherlock would be far more proficient at disposing of a body, though.

Greg Lestrade must be laughing his head off, that Sherlock actually looked my way when Sherlock having a _woman-friend_ was mentioned. It's going to take a while before Greg lets that one go.

'Who was the dead man?'

'I dunno. I didn't ask no questions.'

'Could he have been another man-friend?'

Jones gets up abruptly, only to realise he's still cuffed to the table. Angered he flips the table throwing the recorder and papers to the ground. Officers outside are rushing in as Jones yells: 'You find her, Mister'olmes! She's out there on'er own and he's after her! You need to help her, Mister'olmes!'

The boxer is forcibly removed from the interrogation room by several bulky officers. Sherlock grabs his long coat and methodically dons it, flipping the collar up.

That means he's non-talkative for a while, conjuring up some plan in the privacy of that big head of his.

 _ **.**_

I look ridiculous in these gaudy shorts.

Furiously I glance over at Sherlock. Don't see him taking up a disguise too. Must I humiliate myself like this?

Sherlock is impervious to my frustrated grunts. He hands me a matching bright robe and demands. 'Off you go, John! You agreed to playing the part of a cage fighter while I searched the back office for vital clues. I daresay the role play appealed to some inner violent streak in you. Now take the robe, get on stage and snarl at the paying patrons, and beat the crap out of your opponent. Actually, scratch that. Make sure your opponent lands a few good ones on you, but no internal injuries. What I need is enough time to go through the joint, not to take you to hospital.'

I cross my arms in front of me. 'I still say we could swap, you and I. I'd do a decent job at checking out the back office for clues.'

Sherlock ignores my suggestion as if preposterous.

'And take off your shirt. You're not going to a death fight with a plaid shirt on.'

I glance away to the dirty wall, littered with posters of underground fighters. 'Perhaps I don't care for them to see my shoulder scar. I got it in battle, defending my country.'

'They don't need to know that. The more they assume you got it in a pub brawl, the better, John.' I stare him down. He hesitates ever so slightly. 'Keep your undershirt if you must, John. Some modicum of modesty is unheard of in this place and may provide a hallmark for your brand.' Sherlock takes me by the arm and starts dragging me out to where the cage is.

I give him my shirt, but vindictively roll the robe around me as tight as I can as I turn. Sherlock just shoves me out into the scene.

The crowd cheers and jeers in the same breath. I glance around under the sharp lights. A big tall bloke with steroid pumped muscles insults me freely. I tilt my head; _care to stand by your words?_

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_

* * *

 _2_ _nd_ _of too many A/Ns:_ _I'm bringing in a Moriarty-Moran plotline again. If there needs to be a timeline, it's post-Mary (and Rosie will be sporadically about). Sort of a continuation from posts 150-158. My apologies in advance if you didn't enjoy those. -csf_


	169. Chapter 169

_A/N: It's world book day, I've been told._ _-csf_

* * *

 _ **2**_ _ **nd**_ _ **.**_

Sherlock hisses under his breath as he takes in the cuts and bruises on my exposed skin. We've just arrived back at 221B, it's the dead of the night and Rosie is on a sleepover with Mrs Hudson. The bathroom's ceiling light pierces the quiet as the detective manoeuvres me to take a precarious seat on the bathtub's edge. Sherlock holds the disinfectant and some bandages in his hands, but hesitates on how to proceed from here.

I grab the gear myself and daub it liberally over the landscape of purples and reds.

'Had enough time, Sherlock?' In front of me, he blinks, still eyeing my torso, as if I had spoken another language.

'Oh, yes, John. Just enough. You were splendid in your part.'

'Seen anything interesting?'

Again he seems distracted, but he also takes the damp dressing out of my hand to help me reach over my right shoulder.

'You can't elevate your left arm properly, John', he admonishes. 'Not that you ever could for as long as I've known you', he adds then, not mincing his words. 'You let him hit you on the vast scar tissue on your left shoulder, making it inflamed and stiff now', he deduces. Then glancing up he wonders: 'How did he ever managed to strike you there?'

I plaster a smile on my face.

'I sort of let him. I was winning. Had to hand him an advantage to even out the odds. You wanted time, Sherlock, remember?'

He blinks, uncomfortable. 'Couldn't you, I don't know, hit him slower?'

I scrunch my face. 'I was being watched, you weren't. Stop criticising my methods, will you?'

He blinks. 'John, you're too honest. I, on the other hand, carry enough dishonesty for the both of us. That means we got the much needed clues out of the back office and', he fishes his pockets for a wad of bank notes, 'we won a small fortune in betting. This is just the first instalment of the total payout.'

I blink. 'You bet on my fight?'

'It was a sure bet, John!'

I squint and point at the wad of bank notes. 'You know part of that is mine.'

He shrugs. 'You can have it all. Call it your boxing days retirement fund, if you will. You are aware that I have little interest in money and financial pursuits.'

'We've got bills to pay, you idiot! And groceries to buy. Where do you think all that comes from?'

'My brother Mycroft', he deadpans.

I stare at my friend.

'Yeah. Make sure you thank him', I advise, wondering what Sherlock would do if our electrics got cut, because _someone_ forgot to pay the bills. _And it's not Mycroft._ It's all fine for Sherlock to be supported by his family, but not to me. Silly upper class burguoise tradition, I suppose. I wouldn't—

'John.'

I glance up, made curious by the change in tone. He looks oddly young and unsure.

'I'm sorry you got hurt. I realise it's partly my fault. Well, mostly my fault, you wouldn't be there otherwise. Okay, all my fault, but you agreed. Still my fault, although not on purpose. I believe only in facts, so it's on me. I didn't quite factor in all the possible outcomes of my plan, somehow I overlooked the pain it would cause you. I got carried away.' He looks away, seemingly exhausted by the effort to come clean.

Sherlock read anger in my features and assumed I was mad at him.

I lower my gaze to the tiled floor. 'It's nothing, Sherlock. I've been in plenty of scruffs before. And you needed those clues in the back office safe. That was my choice, and mine to make alone. It wasn't your fault in any way.' I squeeze his forearm gently and wait for our gazes to meet before I grab the first aid bag and resume the work at hand.

'It's alright, Sherlock. I had fun', I add mischievously.

'John, you must never enter a back alley fight again.'

'Why not?' I shrug. 'I'm not some wallflower. I know how to handle myself.'

'John.' He reaches out to me, his eyes mesmerising me in the deep sea undertones; a vast ocean mystery seemingly contained in them. 'You've got me now', he declares enigmatically. Then adds, just to clear the air: 'I can do all the reasoning for you, John, if you'll let some brains do the talking for once. Going into a fight with someone a foot taller and another wider than you...'

I shake my head with a smirk. 'I won, mate.'

Sherlock is already handing me his own silk gown, probably assuming it'll be easier on my chaffed skin. I want to refuse it, out of staining ointments, but he'll have none of it. Big brother Mycroft probably will take care of replacing it too. Sherlock gently helps me wrap the soft fabric around me. I hiss under my breath nonetheless. Sherlock knows me well and volunteers: 'I'll get the kettle on. And you're sleeping in my bed tonight, you'll be far more comfortable.'

 _What the—_ This is how the rumours never die down, Sherlock! You keep feeding them, and it's getting old!

 _ **.**_

' _Good morning, Lestrade. Please forgive John's absence. He's still asleep.'_

' _Yeah, morning... Did you just glance at your bedroom, Sherlock?'_

' _Yes, I suppose I did. How unusually observant.'_

' _Where's John, Sherlock?'_

' _Contrary to popular belief I don't always keep tabs on my assistant. What brings you over, inspector?'_

' _I came over to make sure John is alright, Sherlock. He got quite beat up on your illegal fight yesterday, according to my undercover officer at the scene.'_

' _John is sturdier than people give him credit for. His resilience is one of his best traits.'_

I come to meet the early birds in the living room, rerouting through the bathroom on purpose, where I grabbed my discarded shirt. Greg Lestrade turns with consideration in his face, so he just about misses Sherlock's impatience flash of anger that the genius usually reserves to when he thinks my social conditioning is making me obtuse; his words, not mine.

I'm missing the soft silk brush on my chaffed skin every move I make, so he's got a point.

'You had a man there?' I query the inspector.

'I was concerned, I called in a favour. You look dreadful, by the way, John', he admonishes me. Then turning to the detective: 'Well, was it worth it, what you put John through, Sherlock?'

'Naturally. I proved Jones is innocent. Inadvertently I may have proved his _woman_ guilty, I'm afraid.'

'What?' I squeak.

'Just attempted murder, John.'

Greg raises his hands as if trying to slow time down. 'Hang on, Sherlock! Whose murder?'

'Her husband's.'

'Jones?'

'Oh, no, she's legally married to the club's owner. She hooked up with Jones for shelter and protection, but she would not leave her unfaithful husband without profiting somewhat. She had cleared his safe of all the bets money – it was particularly hard on me to collect yesterday, John – and of a pocket handgun acquired in the black market. She shot her husband in the small office backstage, as Jones was fighting his infamous fight on stage. The noise from the crowd drowned the gunshot blast. She rushed to the safe, opened it with a combination she had previously learned, cleared it – but it wasn't enough. She wanted the money on her husband's wallet. Maybe because she was acting on a petty revenge, or just because she wanted to give an impression of a robbery to throw the police off scent long enough to escape. That's how she got his blood on her clothes, as she frisked him for petty cash.'

'The same blood that Jones got on his clothes', Lestrade notes.

'Yes, but not as Jones told us. Her bloodied clothes would have long dried if they had met at his place, preventing transference, and besides what self-respecting woman would cross London covered in her "dead" husband's blood? No, Jones stumbled into the scene, most likely unknowingly, after the fight was done. He hugged her, that much can be true; more likely he carried the wounded body out into the dumpsters out back, to be found later by some passer by.'

'You said "wounded", Sherlock. The husband wasn't actually dead? So where's the husband? If he isn't dead, why didn't he come forward to the police?'

'Because he too is a fool in love. Ask John about the details on that, it all goes over my head, I'm not properly equipped to explain that', Sherlock muses.

Greg actually glances at me, but I don't take the bait. Instead I patiently get the genius back on track: 'The wronged husband loved her enough to protect her from the police? What did he do? Went home and tried fixing his wound himself?'

'More likely he seek protection with his mates. Jones takes the blame, the wife runs off with the money and the husband still hopes she'll return asking for forgiveness. Which she might, when she runs out of money. And modern sceptics say romance is dead...'

I sigh and take a careful seat in my armchair, several muscles and bruises protesting. 'We must find the husband, he'll clear Jones', I say, only slightly hissed. 'And find the wife, she's the real criminal.'

Sherlock unites his hands behind his back. 'Done both already, John, while you were busy demanding attention on your fight with too bright sport shorts...' The door bell rings downstairs at this point and Sherlock smugly cat-smiles. 'Perfect timing', he comments, as he takes a betting ticket claim from his trousers pocket. 'I put on a claim for enough money on John's win that I knew would no longer be gathered in the safe. And here is the wounded husband paying it on full. You may need to stick around, John, he's a very debilitated man in need of a doctor. And you, inspector, just do your thing too, whatever that is.'

 _ **.**_

'John, stop him before he gets away!'

'mm... trying! _Ngh!'_

Finally, gasping for air, sitting firmly on the man splayed on the floor with one arm wrenched behind his back till near breaking point, I reach out my free hand for Sherlock's handcuffs.

I briefly wonder if this what I'm reduced to, nowadays. Being Sherlock's henchman, the muscle he calls in so not to break sweat in his pristine, sleek lines, immaculate suits.

As soon as the cold steel makes contact with my palm I yank the cuffs back and pin both the big man's arms behind his back. He struggles, enraged, and nearly knocks me off. Whatever his physical ailments they didn't stop his inner violent streak. I take one hand to the scruff of his neck, just over the right, painful-if-he-moves, spot and he stills completely. The army teaches you these things.

' _Daddy?'_

We all turn to look towards the living room door. My little Rosie is standing in the doorway, scrubbing one bleary eye, having woken up from her nap. Still holding her fluffy toy; she never lets go of that toy when she's asleep. She must have woken up with the struggle sounds from the living room downstairs and come to find us—

Feeling mortified that Rosie has just found her father wrestling a man to the floor, I immediately rush to her, to pick her up and divert her gaze from what's she's too young to be exposed to.

Rosie immediately settles her small arms around my neck and her head against my good shoulder, pliant, warm, sleepy. A picture of innocence. Throwing an apologetic look over to Sherlock, Greg, and the two officers who now take my place trying to control the enraged criminal, I quietly slip away to take Rosie back to her nap.

'John.'

I turn, surprised that Sherlock has yanked himself out of the living room and is suddenly materialised by our side. Slowly, gently, he extricates Rosie from my grasp and holds up the sleepy child himself. 'I'll put Rosie to bed, John. You have turned several shades paler from holding her up.'

'I'm perfectly capable—'

'Of not dropping your toddler? Absolutely. The John Watson I know is nothing but determinedly tenacious. However, if you believe for a second your daughter has not acquired enough observational skills to notice your state of pain, then you severely underestimate both her and me.'

'What does that mean?' I still protest as he starts going up those steps to my room upstairs. 'Is Rosie being trained to start deducing the petty theft of the red wooden block or the crocodile sponge toy at the nursery, as soon as she gets a proper hang of speaking long sentences? Sherlock, she already stands out at her class, is it really wise?'

'She's a Watson, John!' my friend declares, never turning back. 'She's not destined to mediocrity!'

'She's my daughter and she'll always be perfect just the way she is!' I warn him, starting to get up those steps after them. I stop after the first couple, feeling light-headed.

I hit the wooden steps in a clumsy seat at the same time that Sherlock enters my room, where Rosie's crib has taken up all available free space.

 _ **.**_

'Sherlock, will you stop pacing the waiting room in circles?'

'No.'

'You are impatient.'

'Obvious, John.'

'You are waiting to collect on Jones' promise to tell you where Jim Moriarty's body was laid to rest.'

'Exactly.'

'What do you assume you'll get from it?'

'No body.'

I frown. Interrogating Sherlock is a strenuous exercise.

'What would that prove?'

'That Jim's body is not there.'

'It doesn't prove that he's alive.'

'It's a negative, John. You can hardly prove a truth by excluding all the lies systematically.'

'So, you get nothing new.'

'Nonsense, John. I get the knowledge of one place where Jim's body is not hidden.'

What? I grimace, feeling queasy by following all Sherlock's sharp turns.

Finally the jail's officer returns accompanied by Jones "the bulldog".

 _ **.**_

It's a strange gathering roaming the old style cemetery today. Rows of masonry slabs, crosses, tombs and all in between are softened by the dark green hues of overgrown nature, reclaiming territory. We're in the outskirts of London, and this burial ground hasn't been used, supposedly, in a couple of generations. I wonder how Jim Moriarty could have ended up here, according to the rumours Jones heard. Stealing someone else's grave I'd imagine! Even in the end, a criminal mastermind's last rest needed to be an act of crime in itself.

I bet he planned to steal a vicar's grave, or some royalty member... Jim was anything but low key.

'So?' Sherlock demands impatiently to our unusual guide. The boxer wriggles his hands, unsure how to put his thoughts into words. 'Which one?' Sherlock insists, harshly. So close to proving his point. The detective fought for this, he's collecting his reward.

'That one, Mister'olmes.'

Sherlock positively glides his way with a macabre interest. He leans forward and, before any of us have even got close, he uses his hand to smudge the dirt from the old textured stone. He steps back as if he had just been shocked.

'Let's go, John!' he says, impassively, flipping up his collar and stepping away, long-legged.

I find myself stealing a good glance at that headstone. It reads _John Watson_ and bears my correct year of birth and 2019 as the second date. I find myself smirking. Nice touch. Class act. Haunting Sherlock from the grave. Me, a pawn as always.

Sherlock hisses at the inspector, as he passes by: 'Get your men to dig up that grave. You'll find nothing but crumbling dust and maybe, if you're lucky, old bones. This was a lure, just a taste of Jim's deranged humour. I will not be a willing participant.'

Greg Lestrade glances at me, with a heavy expression. I nod sharply. _I've got this, I'll keep an eye on our friend._ I hurry to follow Sherlock's long legged steps.

 _ **.**_

 _ **TBC**_


End file.
